Run-up to COS Conference

1 June 2010

This past Friday or Saturday, I cannot remember which, I received a text message from Orange detailing a promotion for Mother’s Day this past Sunday. As I re-read this message, the overwhelming feeling of déjà vu that overcame me remained until Sunday night, as I tried repeatedly both my mother’s cell phone and home phone numbers, only to reach voicemail. Eventually, I called my grandmother’s house, the number to which somehow popped out of my memory at that moment. We talked for a few moments, but my mom wasn’t there, she was at home, quite possibly outside somewhere.
The next morning, as Mamadou moved our bedding inside, I decided to try my mom’s number again, as it was now Sunday night back home. I finally reached her, and sure enough, Mother’s Day had already happened, and I had remembered to call her. She appreciated the phone call anyhow, and I was relieved my memory of the American Mother’s Day to have past was true. Apparently the French have a different Mother’s Day than us, leading to all this confusion and international calling.

For a while now, Mamadou has been talking about visiting an older cousin whom he’d spent a long time without seeing. Perhaps this is mostly due to where she lives, Banguinéda, which is to the east of Bamako on the way to Koulikoro. Today we finally got this visit programmed into our somehow always full schedule whenever we’re in Bamako together. Banguinéda has three quartiers, and Mamadou’s cousin, Ami, lives in Kobala Koro. In a noticeable contrast to most Malian villages in this area of Mali, the vast number of houses were built of cement. The market had a considerable variety of fruit, including melon, which I hadn’t yet seen elsewhere so far this year.
We sat in Ami’s concession for several hours, a concession that is full of Fula (Peuhl) Malians. One of the women invited Mamadou and me to eat some toh, and later joked with me about eating that for dinner as well, as we would be spending the night, n’est-ce pas? Another joke we shared was when I was also offered one of the concession’s many young girls to make my wife, but I declined saying the Fula dowries were too expensive. Before we left, Ami prepared our guinea fowl egg sandwiches.
Mamadou took several photos during our visit, and also as we walked on our search for a public transport ride back to Bamako, passing by a cool rock formation he thought would make a picturesque scene. On our way, the sotrama stopped to pick up two women. The elder of them, a bigger woman, was unable to climb aboard, in what became an unbelievable scene. Each of the bus boys tried to pull her up without success, and even after the driver suggested the woman try sitting up front, the height of the van was still too high for her. Not until some form of stepping stool was presented for the woman to assist her ascent, we may have all died laughing at her misfortune. She took it all very well, even making jokes about the situation herself, saying things like truthfully the van was too tall, no, if she couldn’t get in herself she was afraid for the van’s height.

My first night in Bamako, a couple days ago, I got out of my seat outside Mamadou’s concession and on my way to Vieux’s butigi as I pulled down the tail of my shirt, my hand revealed a rip in the rear of my pants that could only have happened sometime between my evening bucket bath and that moment. The frustration of this revelation was compounded by my current situation regarding the rest of my pants. They’re all wearing out at once! I’m now left with one pair of presentable khaki pants, and the third set of pants, my jeans from back home, have now a second tear from the intense hand-washing they’ve incurred during their stay in Mali, leaving them essentially void for wear. This morning, I called Mamadou into his house as I forlornly looked at my only clean pair of pants, these holy jeans. He asked whether I could wear a pair of his own jeans that he’d worn the day before, a pair of Levi’s I’d posed a question about that night. I learnt he’d received them from a distant relative all the way from Angola. Immediately upon trying them on, I realized my luck. They fit perfectly, more perfectly than any other pair of pants I’ve put on in some time. I fell in love with them so abruptly that I joked with Mamadou about them all day, to the point we both decided to find ourselves another pair. I suggested my dad might be willing to at least appreciate this request, after describing to Mamadou that my dad wears Levi’s almost exclusively. For many years, he would always wonder why I never realize their value, instead opting for other styles of pants. I only wish I could see his reaction to reading this story.

Another funny story from today came about due to Mamadou’s telephone. I arrived in Bamako with my Nokia I bought in Mali, and since it’s battery was in need of attention, he took it and replaced my Orange sim card with his own. The phone he’d been using, my Motorola from back home, is now in my possession. Mamadou also has a Malitel sim card he seldom uses, but now keeps above the battery of the Nokia, referring to the phone as a French model with two sim card option, the first of its kind. Yesterday, while he waited for me outside the BNDA bank in ACI-2000, I’d forgotten his Orange credit had run out and text him on that number. He read the text, then replaced the Orange sim card with his Malitel, replied to the text, before quickly returning the Orange sim card just in time for my reply. This story he used to his defense of the phone’s status as a dual pièce, only for me to refer to the fact it was a manual setting, not automatic. Oh, and the fact that there’s no such thing as a French phone with the option to have two sim cards! Haha…


4 June 2010

Tuesday morning I took a cab to the Bureau in ACI-2000 in order to follow up on a text I sent to the PCMOs about some medication re-fills. Before I stopped by the Med Clinic, I checked in Kader’s office to see if any packages were waiting for me there. Sure enough, two birthday boxes had arrived.
It became apparent upon opening one of them that a container of Gatorade powder had exploded on its journey across the Atlantic, leaving us to empty the entire package’s contents and rinse off a thin layer of sticky lemon-line colored particles. Luckily, nothing was ruined and the remainder of the powder we salvaged in a small paper bag.
Another item from this package, a Cuban cigar, was enjoyed Wednesday evening by a special group of Bamako friends. Mamadou and I invited our friend Bocar dit Ivo to join our hangout crew leader, also named Bocar, and a special drop-in, Mamadou’s friend Bra, who just happened to stop by that night. Both Bocar’s had past cigar smoking experiences, but I’m fairly certain this was each of my Malian friend’s first Cuban, so we took photos to document the fun moment.

Wednesday afternoon, I spontaneously came up with a short-term solution to my pants problem. Across the road from Mamadou’s workplace is a market stand that sells, among other items, long prayer robes called forokiya. No matter how many holes my pants may have, the length of the robe would conceal any wear and tear from view. Plus, they fashionably casual. I’d asked a couple of the neighboring shop owner’s friends that morning how much one of those robes should cost, and their estimate, 1000 fcfa, encouraged me to pursue this affair. I knew I’d have to send a Malian to buy it for me, because there’s no way any vendor would sell me, the white Toubab, anything at that price, not even if I spoke my best Bambara or employed considerable bargaining skills. Later, as I told Mamadou of my intentions, another of the neighboring shop owner’s friends, Dri, offered to go barter a price for me. He returned to say he could bargain no lower than 1250 fcfa, and when I said I was only willing to spend 1000 fcfa, Dri held out his hand with the remaining 250 fcfa, and shortly came back with the exact color pattern I’d privately selected were I to have gone myself, a revelation Mamadou later told Dri enthusiastically.