Thursday, July 28, 2005
the bush (somewhere outside Segou), Mali
Bamako proved to be a peculiar mix of the exotic and familiar, magnifying all the aspects I have grown to love about African cities while retaining very few of the negatives. The city, despite its density, was surprisingly clean and remarkably safe. The 'Grand Marche' seemed to have decided arbitrary boundaries and the entire city center effectively turned into a critical mass of life exploding in brightly colored action. While the police could prove to be a bit of a challenge, as I learned after taking photographs in an area I soon discovered was 'sensitive', everyday Malians were astonishingly helpful yet rarely disconcerting. Despite their evident need, there was rarely a sense of desperation. Decades of misguided and self-serving foreign aid which had created a fatalistic sense of gratuitous entitlement in countries such as the Gambia, where I had worked for nearly four years, was not as apparent on the surface in central Bamako.
This was not the orderly and compliant Africa that was envisioned by the multitude of isolated and out-of-touch diplomats and accompanying non-governmental organizations never straying far from the miniaturized and clinically sanitized version abroad of their respective countries, nor that of the idealistic short-term volunteers rarely around long enough to see the cyclical failures of an aid structure unaware of its own history, or even that of the greedy and unscrupulous profiteers preying on the unrealistic aspirations and hopes created by the very organizations who year after year, program upon program, strive to meet arbitrary indicators and goals that confirm a healthy and prosperous society. The core of Bamako was left to the Malians and consequently, was much healthier because of this.
A day or two after our arrival, an afternoon waiting for visas to Burkina Faso was abruptly improved after we randomly stumbled into a military mess hall called the Aviator's Club. While many people would have probably turned around upon finding a large assortment of African men dressed exclusively in military uniform lounging around under grass covered bantabas, drinking large quantities of beer and eating dubious bowls of local chop in the middle of the afternoon, we wandered further inside and found a bar in the far corner of the compound. We wandered inside only to find a long narrow room so dark that it was impossible to even find a seat. As our eyes slowly adjusted, we found ourselves in a dingy room lined with dirty sofas and reeking of cigarette smoke. At a sofa near the back sat two men in uniform that, despite their obvious intoxication, must have been of high rank. We immediately sat down and, in order to fit in, felt that it was imperative that we order drinks as soon as possible. More military men stumbled into this squalid room as I wondered how welcome we would be in a few hours after the sun set.
As we listened to Malian hip hop and gangster rap, which was playing on a small television in the corner of the room, my desire to eat suddenly became colossal. It had been hours since any of us had eaten and leaving behind the bar, we stumbled back out into the court yard and ordered our own bowls of slop. Not particularly tasty to any extent, they served to fill our basic requirements. With our time nearly finished, we left the Aviator's Club behind us and returned to the highly boring bureaucratic world of sorting out visas and ensuring that all official paperwork is proper.
Bamako proved to be a peculiar mix of the exotic and familiar, magnifying all the aspects I have grown to love about African cities while retaining very few of the negatives. The city, despite its density, was surprisingly clean and remarkably safe. The 'Grand Marche' seemed to have decided arbitrary boundaries and the entire city center effectively turned into a critical mass of life exploding in brightly colored action. While the police could prove to be a bit of a challenge, as I learned after taking photographs in an area I soon discovered was 'sensitive', everyday Malians were astonishingly helpful yet rarely disconcerting. Despite their evident need, there was rarely a sense of desperation. Decades of misguided and self-serving foreign aid which had created a fatalistic sense of gratuitous entitlement in countries such as the Gambia, where I had worked for nearly four years, was not as apparent on the surface in central Bamako.
This was not the orderly and compliant Africa that was envisioned by the multitude of isolated and out-of-touch diplomats and accompanying non-governmental organizations never straying far from the miniaturized and clinically sanitized version abroad of their respective countries, nor that of the idealistic short-term volunteers rarely around long enough to see the cyclical failures of an aid structure unaware of its own history, or even that of the greedy and unscrupulous profiteers preying on the unrealistic aspirations and hopes created by the very organizations who year after year, program upon program, strive to meet arbitrary indicators and goals that confirm a healthy and prosperous society. The core of Bamako was left to the Malians and consequently, was much healthier because of this.
A day or two after our arrival, an afternoon waiting for visas to Burkina Faso was abruptly improved after we randomly stumbled into a military mess hall called the Aviator's Club. While many people would have probably turned around upon finding a large assortment of African men dressed exclusively in military uniform lounging around under grass covered bantabas, drinking large quantities of beer and eating dubious bowls of local chop in the middle of the afternoon, we wandered further inside and found a bar in the far corner of the compound. We wandered inside only to find a long narrow room so dark that it was impossible to even find a seat. As our eyes slowly adjusted, we found ourselves in a dingy room lined with dirty sofas and reeking of cigarette smoke. At a sofa near the back sat two men in uniform that, despite their obvious intoxication, must have been of high rank. We immediately sat down and, in order to fit in, felt that it was imperative that we order drinks as soon as possible. More military men stumbled into this squalid room as I wondered how welcome we would be in a few hours after the sun set.
As we listened to Malian hip hop and gangster rap, which was playing on a small television in the corner of the room, my desire to eat suddenly became colossal. It had been hours since any of us had eaten and leaving behind the bar, we stumbled back out into the court yard and ordered our own bowls of slop. Not particularly tasty to any extent, they served to fill our basic requirements. With our time nearly finished, we left the Aviator's Club behind us and returned to the highly boring bureaucratic world of sorting out visas and ensuring that all official paperwork is proper.
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