Sunday, July 24, 2005
Bamako, Mali
We arrived in this bustling city by the River Niger midday. Trying to find our hotel was a ridiculous feat, which involved asking for directions about ten times and being told different routes by all ten people. We must have been quite a sight to see as we pulled into the Catholic mission's parking lot: the car covered in mud, high-pitched squealing noises from the roof rack, a thick layer of dust on all our bags, and three dirty, inelegant, smelly travelers asking for a room. "Yes, just one room, please. We can share," I say to the concierge. I see his inquisitive look. I say to myself: Don't look at me like that. I'm not sleeping with both or either of these two men. In Africa, male female relations are pretty clearly defined. As a child, you belong to your family; as a woman, your husband. Pretending to be married to either Sean or Nate has helped me in most situations, as it provides a clear indication of my unavailability. People everywhere like to ask: "C'est madame ou bien mademoiselle?"
Meanwhile, because we have been used to doing so, Sean introduced me as his wife. But he forgot to tell me that he had done this... and thinking that this was a capital city and people were more familiar with Western women traveling through, I introduced myself as single. This innocent miscommunication invited a little unwelcome footsie action in the phone cabin from one of our hosts. All the while I am confused: You are standing way too close, buddy. Wait, that's his foot! What is he doing?
In his defense, he was likely confused by all the mixed messages and thought I was looking for an opportunity to be unfaithful to my "husband" (you know, the one I didn't know about). In think: Great! Now what do I say? "Ummm... I have a fiancé in America. I was just speaking with him on the phone..." I said. "Why did he not want to marry you? What are you doing here?" he asks. Now he is even more confused. What a tangled web we weave.
Bamako has incredible light. Dusk brings an incredibly thick sensual warm light to everything you see. The cars and crowded streets and open gutters seem to loose their hard edges in this magical light. Add the dense moisture of an approaching thunderstorm and you would think that you had entered an alternate universe. Everything is beautiful and calm. You feel a little lost and wander the streets as if in a dream. You think about cutting the air with a knife. Could be all the pollution, but it is incredible.
This was bound to happen, but Bamako is also site to my first random African illness, one which I hope will make my stomach stronger in the long run. I thought I smelled something foul seeping out of my pores last night, and sure enough, I awoke this morning to stomach cramps so painful that I could no longer sleep. This cramping has only worsened throughout the day, and when it brought tears to my eyes on the side of the road, I opted out of participating in the round of interviews we had set up for the day (research for our next article). Feeling whiny and somewhat depressed by all of this, I find comfort in the fact that I will get to know my body infinitely better as it gets pushed to all sorts of extremes.
We arrived in this bustling city by the River Niger midday. Trying to find our hotel was a ridiculous feat, which involved asking for directions about ten times and being told different routes by all ten people. We must have been quite a sight to see as we pulled into the Catholic mission's parking lot: the car covered in mud, high-pitched squealing noises from the roof rack, a thick layer of dust on all our bags, and three dirty, inelegant, smelly travelers asking for a room. "Yes, just one room, please. We can share," I say to the concierge. I see his inquisitive look. I say to myself: Don't look at me like that. I'm not sleeping with both or either of these two men. In Africa, male female relations are pretty clearly defined. As a child, you belong to your family; as a woman, your husband. Pretending to be married to either Sean or Nate has helped me in most situations, as it provides a clear indication of my unavailability. People everywhere like to ask: "C'est madame ou bien mademoiselle?"
Meanwhile, because we have been used to doing so, Sean introduced me as his wife. But he forgot to tell me that he had done this... and thinking that this was a capital city and people were more familiar with Western women traveling through, I introduced myself as single. This innocent miscommunication invited a little unwelcome footsie action in the phone cabin from one of our hosts. All the while I am confused: You are standing way too close, buddy. Wait, that's his foot! What is he doing?
In his defense, he was likely confused by all the mixed messages and thought I was looking for an opportunity to be unfaithful to my "husband" (you know, the one I didn't know about). In think: Great! Now what do I say? "Ummm... I have a fiancé in America. I was just speaking with him on the phone..." I said. "Why did he not want to marry you? What are you doing here?" he asks. Now he is even more confused. What a tangled web we weave.
Bamako has incredible light. Dusk brings an incredibly thick sensual warm light to everything you see. The cars and crowded streets and open gutters seem to loose their hard edges in this magical light. Add the dense moisture of an approaching thunderstorm and you would think that you had entered an alternate universe. Everything is beautiful and calm. You feel a little lost and wander the streets as if in a dream. You think about cutting the air with a knife. Could be all the pollution, but it is incredible.
This was bound to happen, but Bamako is also site to my first random African illness, one which I hope will make my stomach stronger in the long run. I thought I smelled something foul seeping out of my pores last night, and sure enough, I awoke this morning to stomach cramps so painful that I could no longer sleep. This cramping has only worsened throughout the day, and when it brought tears to my eyes on the side of the road, I opted out of participating in the round of interviews we had set up for the day (research for our next article). Feeling whiny and somewhat depressed by all of this, I find comfort in the fact that I will get to know my body infinitely better as it gets pushed to all sorts of extremes.
<< Home