Renewing Important Things in Bamako

4 August 2010

My Mali Visa expired 10 July, and during my last trip to the Bureau I wanted to have it renewed, but had the wrong passport with me to do so. This time, I came with my government issued passport that had been in Kafara and upon entering the Bureau grounds the admin guy I needed met me at the door. I also made sure he had deferred a student loan and I’d be given a ticket to fly home rather than cash-en-lieu. Sure enough, it proved to be a productive Bureau trip, and I even had two packages waiting there as well.
It’d been almost three months since I’d seen Maman, or even really talked with her. In a somewhat cowardly fashion, I initiated and continued this lack of communication without giving her a proper explanation beforehand. I simply needed some time to myself, to reevaluate how to approach the next phase of our friendship, as I will soon be leaving Mali. Finally, I called her out of my own accord last night, doing my best to maneuver past her understandable frustration and barrage of questions in order to explain myself.
She’d told me she was now in ACI-2000 and gave me basic landmark orientation as to how to get to where she was, as it turns out to be not too far from our Bureau, near Hotel Les Colonnes. Around the corner from the stage house, there’s a well-stocked butigi where I bought Maman some juice, yogurt and Snickers bars. I used the opportunity to ask the shop owner if he knew how to get to the area Maman had described, and as fate intended, he asked an elder man sitting outside who upon learning I understood Bambara offered to drive me to the hotel in his car, the first Mercedes with an automatic transmission I’ve seen in Mali.
Maman’s spent most of her days alone, with just a guard and a barren estate with just one tenant currently staying there. A Mauritanian family lives there, and listening to Maman’s account of her asking them permission for me to visit her there, it became very clear that these people live by a strict adherence to their particular sharia. Upon learning I was a man, they initially told her this wouldn’t be okay, because men don’t go see women as far as they’re concerned, they go see other men. After she fabricated some reason for my visit’s importance, and began to cry, they eventually allowed a one-time exception. This interaction left Maman skeptical as to whether Mauritania was a place she’d ever like to travel to, and she asked me whether or not it was. As this was my only exposure to Mauritanian culture, I could only agree that it was possible we wouldn’t enjoy a visit to the country, but regardless of our opinion of their lifestyle, it was important to despite our interpretation of it to be unfair to be respectful.
Wearing a pagna with a peacock design I recognized as the one I gave her at some point last year, Maman played an excellent contrast to the frigid feel of the locale with a preparation of an omelet and fries with bread, served along with a small orange soda. The Mauritanian man arrived for his midday break, and went immediately upstairs to wait for Maman to bring up his lunch. She had me come with her so I could be properly introduced, and needless to say it was fairly awkward. I don’t speak French well, this man doesn’t speak English or Bambara, and I can sense the ground beneath me as akin to needles.
The reasons why Maman has decided to find herself in such a pitiful position are similar to the story of a tragic hero. Because of her father’s death, there’s no longer a support figure for the family. As the eldest offspring, Maman is assuming this responsibility, because it’s become clear her father’s brothers won’t be. She started working for the first time in her life so her younger siblings will be able to continue their studies next year, and maybe have new outfits for this year’s upcoming fête observances. How honorable and selfless a decision she’s made!
She felt ashamed by the circumstances and rigid guidelines surrounding my visit, and tried to apologize before I left. Together we walked almost half the distance between her place and the stage house before she finally believed what I’d said about it being not actually that close, but still a walk able distance. I did get to point out the area where the US Embassy is, as well as Qaddafi’s mosque across the street from there, before saying goodbye.
Despite my admiration for Maman’s courage, I was overwhelmed by depressing thoughts after seeing her current situation first-hand. I sat in the stage house for a little while just reflecting and listening to melancholy music.
A big rainstorm kept me from going across town to Daoudabougou, and Peter was nice enough to let me stay with him at the Embassy worker’s house he’s looking after. It was the perfect atmosphere I needed, with comfortable amenities, cable tv, and wireless. We even ate paninis!


5 August 2010

After a quick visit to the Med Clinic to have a record of my recent bout with malaria written into my charts, I caught a cab across the river with a pleasant fellow who appreciated the ability to speak Bambara with a white American. I had another similarly appreciated opportunity to interact in such a manner with someone I see frequently next door to Mamadou’s workplace. Bocar’s intense round of questions left me bashful about PC’s successes and intentions in the eyes of Malians, but I initially tried my best to provide my answers in an ambassador-like manner, though that quickly proved too difficult because I actually was about as cynical as this guy turned out to be, unfortunately.
Not long after Mamadou told me it’d been some time since the last he’d seen Coumba Tigua, he pointed my attention to the ever recognizable Wahab woman coming our way. This time, I split my order into half peanut, half sesame, and the woman added one of my favorite, coconut, as a token of appreciation.
The contents of packages from my parents were emptied into a large blue plastic bag, not only to keep them safe from an unexpected downpour but also to share various items with Mamadou and his friend Lasine, who’d just arrived. Mamadou can now add a pair of American jeans to that other pair from Angola. Photos Dad included in his package of my family members all the way from sixth grade to recently were enjoyed very much by my Malian friends, along with disbelief that it was truly pictures of me they were looking over.
Traveling back to village proved a miserable Air Digan experience, with close to 35 people crammed in the thing. I couldn’t feel my legs before we’d even left Bamako. Just outside the city limits, in the town of Senou, I considered getting off and sparing myself the misery of the next two hours, but even my excuse that I was getting up to let an elder take my spot was rejected, as those sitting next to me insisted I not go anywhere.
Kafara is packed for the second Thursday in a row, this time for a wedding. It was slightly unfortunate to hear calls of Toubab in my own village, but I reminded myself those people clearly weren’t from here, or had been living in a hole the past two years. Muriama was convinced the Coumba Tigua I gave her for the kids to be something from outside Mali, but I told her it’s a product of Daoudabougou. Both Soumaïla and Kadia had left village today, and Bakary, despite telling me repeatedly he’d be coming with me, was unreachable all day.
A quick trip to reception tonight revealed a hilarious development. Maman had apparently called my dad, and after they both got embarrassed by the awkward lack of mutual understanding, Maman thought she’d die of laughter and my dad was freaking out thinking something was wrong. I called him to explain what’d happened, and after his initial relief, he told me ask for his excuse from Maman, which I said wouldn’t be necessary since the whole thing seemed to have left her in especially high spirits. The bustle of San Francisco’s airport compounded the difficulty of spotty reception, but in the end it was due to a lack of credit on my end we were cut off prematurely.