Chez Toi (At Home) in Bamako- Mali Part3. by risa
It has been almost three weeks and I am already finding myself at home and comfortable in this little African city of Bamako. ‘Tu-es chez toi ici’ says a friendly local handing me half of his tasty orange. Familiar faces with waving hands and raised thumbs as I whizz through my neighborhood on my little motto. An ‘a demain’ from the old lady from whom I buy my fruit and vegetables. Playing wallie – a West African game played with nuts on a small wooden board with holes – for hours with my neighbour. The day slowly passing us by, unnoticed. Young street kids dancing in the dusty red dirt streets on Saturday night five steps from my house. They dance to thumping african/hip-hop and african/reggae beats. The music forces these young kids to move their bodies in the most amazing fashion. You see little ten year olds dancing with every ounce of their souls. Moving, shaking, vibrating, folding, stomping, swooning and swaying.
Here, chez moi, I’m finding myself stuck somewhere between a tourist, an ex-pat and what I refer to as the ‘unromanticized local’.
As a tourist, one gets into many epic adventures seeing the world flash before one’s eyes. You meet many people, and they quickly come in and out of your life. As a tourist, however, I realize I only catch small glimpses of the world that is lived by most of the people on this earth:
The blind beggar gets up in the morning and goes to her normal place at the foot of the traffic intersection, where she spends her day, as usual, engulfed in smoke fumes, raising her hands to stopped traffic for some change; ‘je vous en pris’. The local merchant gets up, places his mangos and cigarettes on his small stand, turns on the radio, sits by the side of the road and passes the days away, only disturbed when the sun crosses the sky and it becomes too hot not to move to the shade on the other side of the street. The local boy standing on the street corner making his living trying to sell his watches, sunglasses, phone-cards and cds, or the local woman doing the same with her bananas or burnt corn on the cob.
As an ex-pat, you grow accustomed to many of the tiresome and difficult issues that plague all residents in a developing country. The foul smells throughout the city that at first cause gag-reflexes become commonplace and are hardly noticed; the outrageous traffic and polluted streets grow on you; the common diahrrea will inevitably subside; the never-ending power outages; the extreme heat.
However, the ex-pat always has the knowledge that another existence is possible and ideals can be sought after, if not achieved: Most of the ex-pats have their small swimming pools (albeit mosquito ridden and dirty) to escape the heat of the mid-day sun, they have their air conditioners for pleasent sleeping at night and they can buy their coffee at the ‘Supermarché’ to enjoy in the morning with their fresh pasteries and their imported copies of ‘Le Monde’.
Many of the foreigners here, be them tourists or ex-pats, have the desire to integrate and mix with the local community. There is however a certain degree to which this is impossible. There will always be the constant pestering of market merchants trying to sell their goods – including a local who offers the hat off his head for ‘seulement 5000 CFA’ (an expensive $10) because one shows excitement due to the fact that this army hat has ‘Dirt and Rock’ printed in bright orange on the front. One will always receive curious looks from fellow motorists and will continually be the receipient of wide-eyed staring from young children, unaccustomed to this white person’s appearance, no matter how dark or dirty he or she may get. As much as one plays their games, eats their foods, dances their dances, and lives in their world, as a rich foreigner, one will always be a different.
This life however, is not altogether different from that experienced by a large number of locals. There is a truely ‘unromantic’ side to this under developed world. There are those locals who live, very much as one would in the west, sitting behind their desks passing their days working away, returning home on their scooters picking up groceries on the way. Club owners, and hotel managers making money, tailoring to rich ex-pat or business communities. Office workers dealing with their office difficulties. Government employees working their 9 to 5 in air-conditioned rooms. Young adults saving their money to go out partying on weekends. Cleaners, bus drivers, clerks, and doctors. All of them working, shopping, eating, dancing and living.
In an attempt to find my place, I’m taking a little from everyone. I will seek out as much adventure as I can and see all that I can in this short period of time like a tourist. I will try to integrate as much as possible, hang out with locals and spend an afternoon doing nothing on the street corner but moving from one side of the street to the other. I will go to my air-conditioned office and work my 9 to 5, drive home on my motorcycle through chaotic and polluted streets, and pick up food on the way home like the unromanticized local. And I will take ex-pat breaks from reality by having a beer at the local bar, drinking my morning coffee over a croissant and a copy of Le Monde, and dancing to African hip-hop at the local favourite club, doing my best to move, shake, vibrate, fold, stomp, swoon and sway, or as they say here ‘bougé bougé’.
Hope all are well, living and loving life.
Michael
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