Bamako

Bamako. Crowded. Sprawling. Choking. Polluted. Fast. All of those developing country big-city adjectives. I felt back in my element. I had learned how to travel in the bush, but now felt back in the kind of environment where I had learned to travel, and I felt nostalgic with my airways clogged with exhaust, froggering across traffic and navigating clattertrap public transport.
My first few weeks in Mali were spent in and out of Bamako, doing various errands and just exploring. On our arrival at the large youth hostel, we were accosted by hustlers trying to make offers on Blai’s and Felix’s vehicles, and sell us tours, jewelry and drugs. We were not into that, so we got out of there. Felix went to stay with a German friend living in Bamako, and I got into the cargo area of Blai’s truck with Susan and Fura, Blai’s pregnant dog. It was deathly hot and humid, and I waited in there for nearly an hour for Blai, Jonathan and Ignasi to find a place outside of town to camp for the night. When I finally climbed out, it was dark, and we were in an open area among a spread out village. A man arrived to see what we were doing. We asked if we could stay here and invited him to tea. He said it was fine to stay and we cut open a watermelon and passed it around.
I had arranged a place for us to Couchsurf, but the next day Jonathan and Susan decided to stay with Blai and Ignasi and go to a nearby National Park. I wanted to stay in the city, so they dropped me off on some wide boulevard far from the center of town. I had no idea where I was, just that I needed to get to Magnambougou Projet, the neighborhood of my couchsurfing host. Somebody on the side of the road showed me the proper “Sotrama” to take and I hopped into the green Mercedes camper van converted into a bus. Although there were nearly 20 people piled onto the rickety benches, they squeezed me in and threw my pack on top. After thirty minutes, we arrived at a crowded transit lot on the edge of the central market. I asked around for connections to Magnambougou, but by the time I found the right bus, I had gotten a text from my host, saying he had already left for work, and that I would need to wait until tomorrow.
I walked, no, shoved my way through the market, keeping my eyes on the central mosque and Cathedral to keep myself oriented. Navigating a market of this size, with so many people is like white water rafting. It is necessary to move faster than the flow of the river to really be in control. Boulders and log jams are obstacles to avoid before it’s too late, like someone pushing a cart through the crowd or a motorcycle about to emerge through the crowd, ready to impale your crotch on its front tire. In a sense, the whole city can be thought of in the same way, just on a bigger scale. It was one of if not the most intensely crowded and sweaty markets I have ever been in, and trying to make it through with my 50 pound pack getting a free ride made it that much more…exciting.
I finally arrived at the youth hostel, shook all the hustlers “welcoming” me to Africa, bargained for a dorm bed, and felt free in my solitude for the first time in months.

I spent a few days couchsurfing with Noumouke Kone, a young sports radio journalist, and his family in a neighborhood far from the center of town. I had more trouble communicating with Noumouke in his mumbled French than with almost anyone, but it was still a good time. He and his family were extremely hospitable, and they truly spoiled me. I tried to wash my clothes, but they insisted on doing it for me. They cooked all my meals, and bought me Cokes. I wanted to explain to them that all this special treatment was not necessary, and that I preferred to be treated as part of the family, but I thought they might be offended. I lived a life more comfortable than I had since I left France.

Noumouke Kone

Noumouke's hood, Magnambougou Projet

At the station where Noumouke does his sports radio show every Sunday

Noumouke's co-worker and I.

One morning, Noumouke’s father took me out of town to show me the private schools that he runs. I was a sort of guest of honor, and all the kids said in unison “Bonjour Joey”. I sat and watched as the couple of dozen kids recited French pronouns and verb conjugations. The teacher would rap the kids on the knuckles when they gave a wrong answer, and I couldn’t help but think of the gangrenous finger of the corporal punishment victim Susan treated in Mauritania. One boy tried to move his hand at the last moment, which earned him a double-strength smack that broke the stick in two and set him off sobbing. Noumouke’s father also took me to a nearby high school and a German aid project. All of it was very fascinating, though I wished that my comprehension of French was better so I could have caught all the details of what they were telling me.
I spent my evenings, when Noumouke was at work, with Noumouke’s friend, Cheikh. He used to work the “hotlines” at a radio station with Noumouke, but the work was no temporary. He seemed like the kind of good-natured guy that dreams big, but can’t seem to catch a break. His sister works with American missionaries as a translator. As expected she said she loved her work and that the Americans she works with are all very good people (which I do not doubt). When I pressed her more, though, she did have her issues with the evangelizing they are doing, especially in a country that is between 80% and 90% Muslim.

Cheikh prepares the tea...

...and puts it in an awesome Obama shot glass

After a few days of unwarranted hospitality, I met up again with Susan, Jonathan and Blai for Christmas. It was fairly uneventful and basically consisted of us trying to get into bars with live music that, usually are free, but were trying to charge exorbitant covers because of the holiday. We ended up in a nice restaurant occupied by a mix of foreigners and rich Malians. The band was not representing Mali’s rich musical heritage, but instead played a bizarre mix of covers. We were by far the lowest class, dirtiest and rowdiest group in the place.

My awesome feet, awesome pants

Christmas in Mali is weird. Yes, it’s a Muslim country (only 2% Christian), but it does not seem to align itself with the Arab world. Like most of Sub-Saharan Africa, it tends to strongly emulate western culture. And this means that during Christmas time people are in the streets peddling inflatable santas and red santa hats. And every live music venue was having big parties. Everyone was dressed to the nines, and not for Jesus, but because it’s Christmas damnit!
Around this time we experienced our first taste of bad African cops. Blai was pulled over twice, albeit for valid reasons in a western country, but here it was obviously out for bribe extraction. The first time, Blai saw Felix going the opposite way on a motorbike. We were in traffic, so Blai jumped out, and Jonathan took the wheel. It took playing very ignorant to get out of a bribe on that one. The other time, Blai was talking on his cell phone, and had the $20 fine reduced to a $10 bribe. Jonathan was stopped in the street at night twice. The first time, they searched him, looking for drugs. The second time, they demanded him to just get in their vehicle. He refused, so they searched him, and again were disappointed to find nothing.
After the holiday, I parted ways again with the rest. They went to a nearby town, Siby, where they met up with a friend that Susan had made through her interest in drumming. I stayed in Bamako and waited for Lise, who would be joining me for New Year’s.