How I got my Malian driver’s license

My New York State driver’s license was due to expire on my birthday in January. Renewing it by mail presented with some logistical difficulties, and I got it into my head that I would get a Malian license. True, many bureaucratic procedures here are so convoluted that they make your brain swell up, but sometimes things are surprisingly easy (for example getting a visa). Getting a Malian license while having a current American one seemed simple enough, and Malé was going to set it all up for me. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, as I was letting my license expire, “it will not be problem”.

Soon it was somewhat of a problem: my birthday came, my license expired, and I did not have a new one yet. True, Malé had identified some Big Cheese from the Ministry of Roads and Transportation, and I had an audience coming up where “everything will be taken care of”, but it was still a week away. I had to get to and from work every day. (When in Rome do as the Romans, I know, but I refuse to join the ranks and drive around without a valid license. The traffic here is so precarious, and one is always just a millisecond away from running over a goat / child / donkey / pedestrian / chicken / moped / dog, and if that happens I would rather have a valid license on me, thank you very much.)

In preparation for my meeting with the BC I had to prepare my “dossier”. I had to submit four photos, a copy of my birth certificate, and also a Certificate of Residence from the police station in my neighborhood. No problem: those items were easy enough to supply. Once submitted though, I was told that since I was a foreigner I would have to get my birth certificate officially translated, and also go to my Embassy and get a ‘Residence Card’ from them. (The photos were fine.) I had my birth certificate translated, and then I went to the fort-like US Embassy. I was told that there is no such thing as a ‘Residence Card’. When told, the BC said that in that case they would take a ‘work certificate’, which turned out to be a letter signed by Malé, stating that I worked with him. Ok, so far no problem.

Meeting the BC kept being delayed for different reasons, and for two weeks I had to rely on Malé or my sister (who had just arrived from Berlin) or somebody else to drive me to work. Finally: the Big Day for my meeting with the BC! I had no idea what to expect, and neither did Malé, but I was really looking forward to getting my license.

We had to be at the MINISTRY OF ROADS AND TRANSPORTATION OFFICE OF LICENSES AND REGISTRATION FOR TRUCKS, CARS, MOTORCYCLES AND MOPEDS, INSPECTIONS AND TECHNICAL VISITS, AND MANHOLE COVERS at 7am. Apparently approximately 300 men and women also had the same instructions: the place was teeming. I still was not sure about what actually would take place, so I just followed Malé as he went around the building to the back door. The BC had just arrived with his entourage, and after a quick meet & greet I was ushered through some offices, and into a large room. The room had several metal benches and some random chairs, all facing the front of the room. Funny, I thought, what am I going to be doing here?

I waited for about 1 ½ hours. Nothing much to do expect stare at the bare, cracked, turquoise-colored walls, the stacks of papers and files on the floor, the dust that had settled on everything, and watch the wobbly ceiling fan … A good opportunity to contemplate the absence of 45 degree angles in Mali! When I was sure that the metal bars of the bench had left a permanent imprint on my behind, a second door was opened. People were called up, and one by one they piled into the room. Soon the room was filled up, all the seats were taken. I realized that I would have to share my little desk with one other person, and I scooted over for a young woman.

I soon realized that according to Malian standards the room was only half full, and more and more people joined us. Soon we were packed shoulder to shoulder. Matter of fact, we (me and the other three people sharing my little desk) had to turn our shoulders a little sideways, one arm on the desk in front of us, the other behind our back, in order to fit onto the bench and be able to write! By now I realized that I was about to participate in a full-fledged Malian written driver’s examination. In French, of course, and in Bambara for those of us not fluent in French!

The BC was the examiner that day, and he proceeded to explain the test taking procedure to us. There would be 30 questions based on photos of traffic scenarios projected onto the cracked, dusty, turquoise wall. We would have to get 20 correct answers in order to be able to take the road test. (Road test???) He would read the question and the possible answers (for those who speak French but cannot read and write), and then he would translate them into Bambara (for those who can neither speak French nor read and write). He did not specifically say what he would do for those who can read and write, but do not speak a word of Bambara, and only marginally speak French, and certainly not enough to pass a drivers examination - like me!

The BC began to project the images onto the wall. Nothing could have been further removed from what the street scenes look like here in Mali. There were photos of working traffic lights, pedestrian crossings clean streets, legible road signs, and cars with functioning head lights. I wasn’t sure how anybody was even going to relate to the images…?! When the slide showed a French pastoral countryside in dense fog, and the question was about using the fog lights, my mouth just dropped open. Fog??? Fog lights??? People here are barely using headlights, and there has never been any fog here. The smoke of burning garbage, maybe, or the dust of a passing herd of cows, but fog? The young lady next to me noticed my open mouth, and she nudged me and showed me her answer for that slide. Clearly she thought that I needed all the help that I can get. I tried to stay focused on the rest of the questions, but my mind was racing with ideas for a REAL Malian driver’s test, one with culturally relevant images and questions: What do you do when stopped by a flock of sheep? Which hand signal do you use to when your indicator signal is not working? How often should you honk your horn when a car stalls in front of you? What do you do when the ram tied to your car’s roof suddenly breaks lose …?

My behind was numb when finally I was able to step out into the court yard after sitting in that room for 4 hours. On my way out the BC approached me and told me to come back at 16:00 for the road test. I smiled tensely and told him that I would be there. But I had doubts: was I really ready for a Malian road test? Was I supposed to drive like I was taught, you know, like follow the rules and obey the signals? Or was I supposed to drive like everybody else here? What about parking? Should I show him how I learned parallel parking in Germany, or should I just ram my car headfirst into a space like the drivers do here? I just felt confused about the whole thing …

After lunch I felt much better. Yes! I was definitely up for the challenge. I would show the BC some awesome parallel parking, and my driving style would be eclectic: a little Bamako-cows and sheep on the street-death wish and a dash of New York-Dominican-cab driver-attitude, but firmly anchored in place by German-driver’s lessons-anno 1983!

We arrived before 16:00, and soon the BC emerged from the building. He settled into my car. I was eager and determined to impress him. My request to fasten the seatbelt was dismissed by the BC with a wave of his left hand. With his right hand he signaled me forward, pointing between the two trees that were in front of us. Aha, he clearly wanted to see if I get to the other side of the compound without running into the trees. (No problem, just wait until I show you my parallel parking!) Once past the trees we were heading towards the wall that surrounds the compound, so I decided to be proactive and ask him if he wanted me to turn left or right. A lazy wave towards his right told me all I needed to know. I decided to signal, but I had my doubts: was I overdoing it? (We were, after all, the only car here, the only moving object, except for some grazing sheep.) Well, I could always attribute it to my German obsessive-compulsive driving lessons… Now he signaled me towards where Malé was standing next to his car. I thought, oh good, now we will pick up Malé and head into town for some parallel parking and all that good stuff. But to my surprise (and disappointment) the BC got out the car, exchanged some words with Malé, and went into the building ...

And this is how I became the proud (?) owner of a Malian driver’s license, valid for life, all classes and categories: trucks, mopeds, bikes, etc. And when you come and visit me in Bamako we will take a spin, I will make sure to show off my parallel parking skills!

The Customer is Queen

The customer is queen
I have a little raggedy gas stove in our kitchen, which is connected to a big gas container. Every couple of months the gas will run out, inevitably in the middle of cooking. Then we have to unhook the container and drive to a gas station to exchange the empty bottle for a full one.

This seems like a pretty straightforward process, and went smoothly for the first year or so. Then, one hot dusty day not too long ago, the bottle was empty after only two weeks! Right away I was angry, because obviously we were sold a bottle that was not completely filled. We went to the gas station where we always buy it and spoke to the staff there. They explained that since it is not them who fill the bottle, and since they just work there, there was nothing they could do. We should just buy a new bottle and take our chances. WELL. Before I could give them a piece of my mind, Male reminded me that we did not have a receipt that showed date of purchase. I was peeved, but ok, we bought a new bottle (about $28!!!), and I held on to the receipt.

Like clockwork, about two weeks later the bottle ran out. I was ready for them this time: I had the receipt. Male was in Timbuktu, and that actually suited me: he just does not have the same sense of entitlement that I have after having shopped in the USA for 23 years: I am the customer, therefore I am queen, and that’s all there is to it.

Armed with that belief (who says I don’t have any?) I returned to the gas station. I had the same conversation with the workers there as before, but this time I asked for the manager. He was not available, so I left my card, and they promised to call me when the manager was there. (They did call me, but just to say ‘Hi!’, not because the manager was there.) I refused to buy a new bottle, and instead I went to that gas station every day for four days, always with the empty gas bottle in the car, when finally one day I coincided with the manager …

I drew first. I began by recounting what loyal customers we are, and that we choose to take our business to that particular station because we trust the brand name (TOTAL). We were very disappointed when we discovered that twice in a row we had purchased a faulty product. I was there to allow him to rectify that situation. He responded with the predictable we-do-not-fill-the-bottles-we-just-get-them-delivered-so-it’s-not-our-fault. Then came his generous offer: but he would be happy to sell me another bottle!

This was not going to be easy, I could tell, but I had been preparing for this moment for four days. I strategically moved over a bit, and now we were standing in the full sun. The sun did not bother me, but I could tell that my adversary was beginning to wilt. I started again, telling him a bit about how I, his customer, do not care where the bottle comes from or how it gets there, that my only agenda was to get my $28 worth of gas! (I was still quite polite, but increasingly with effort.) And that, by accepting delivery and selling the bottles, they assumed responsibility for the product. And, anyway, if not, they needed to inform their customers that they do not assume responsibility. And if they did not assume responsibility for their product, why would I frequent them? And furthermore, I personally do not like to gamble, and I never do, so why would I start gambling with bottles of gas: full or not??? Also, if they have a problem with the supplier, they need to resolve it and not pass the problem on to their loyal customers. And while we are on the subject of loyal customers: we were prepared to stop frequenting that particular gas station if we felt that we were not being awarded good customer treatment. So there.

My strategy was working, it seemed: I was watching the sweat beads pool on his forehead, and the sweat run off his temples. Exasperated he asked me what it was that I wanted. (How do I shut up this crazy white woman, he was thinking.) I told him that I wanted a new, full bottle for free. Duh!!! He looked at me like I was out of my mind. I looked at him like that was the only way I was going to shut up and go away …

They loaded the bottle into the back of the car. He wiped of his sweat, and we exchanged the usual Malian pleasantries that precede one’s departure. I was smiling all the way home, having scored a small victory for all customers in Mali.

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Malian Love Stories – Part 3

Oumou was in seventh or eight grade when she met Reesa. Reesa was much older -he was her math teacher- and she was flattered by the attention he paid her. He was single, he came from a respected family in Timbuktu, and was always very polite and respectful towards her. Oumou’s girlfriends were impressed and envious, and by encouraging Oumou they revealed all of their own dreams and desires: he will marry you, you will be his first wife, he will buy you lots of dresses and shoes and jewelry, and he will take you to places … Oumou was ambivalent: yes, she was flattered, and he seemed nice enough, and of course she wanted to get married one day, but she did not want to marry just yet, so young, before finishing school. Oumou was not sure how to handle this situation; she wanted the courtship to just continue for now. Reesa, on the other hand, had already made his intentions clear to Oumou: he wanted to get married.

In order to ask her family’s permission Reesa send his uncle to the woman who raised Oumou, Male’s mother Anna. Anna was not going to give Oumou away against her will, and when she asked her, Oumou told her that she was not ready to get married. Anna asked Reesa’s uncle to give Oumou some more time, and that she will agree to marry his nephew eventually. Reesa, however, felt pressured. He was close to getting a new teacher’s position in Bamako, and he did not want to leave Timbuktu without Oumou. He did not understand her hesitation; after all, he was going to do everything to make her happy. He enlisted the help of another family member: the imam of one of the three mosques in Timbuktu. The imam himself went to see Anna, and requested that her granddaughter Oumou consent to marry Reesa. Now Oumou really had no choice anymore: she would have to get married to Reesa. Turning down the imam’s request would have significant social consequences for Anna and her family. So it was agreed, and the wedding ceremony took place.

Oumou remembers the first couple of years of her marriage as very difficult. She says that she was angry and resentful and sad that she was manipulated into marriage, and she decided that she was going to not be nice to Reesa. She refused to cook for him, and she would visit with her girlfriends instead of staying home. She speaks about refusing his advances regularly, and not wanting to sleep with him. Maybe she was hoping that he would just leave her if she was horrible enough. She stopped going to school, since it seemed inappropriate to be married woman and a school girl at the same time. Reesa, however, continued to be kind and patient with her, and he went to the market and bought groceries and cooked for the two of them. Eventually Oumou stopped being mad, and instead began to really fall in love with him.

A couple of years after their marriage they relocated to Bamako, where Reesa continued to work as a teacher. When she was 20 or so Oumou became pregnant. She and Reesa were really happy now as a couple, and to have a baby would just complete their world. Just shortly after her pregnancy was confirmed Reesa was asked by an acquaintance to travel to the U.S. and look into a family matter there. The acquaintance would pay for Reesa’s ticket and all expenses. Reesa discussed this with his young wife, and they quickly agreed: Reesa would travel to the U.S. and, instead of coming right back, he would stay there, start working, sending money to Oumou and their child, and eventually having Oumou join him there. Oumou was just 3 or 4 months pregnant when Reesa left on a flight to Washington DC.

That was in 2002. When I met Oumou in 2005 she had not seen Reesa in three years. Her daughter Mami was three years old and absolutely adorable, and she had never met her father. Oumou was still living in Bamako, having completed a vocational training program for beauticians, but her daughter was being raised in Timbuktu by Oumou’s mother. Oumou was excited about beginning her career (she just had been hired at a beauty salon), but her happiness was tainted by a sense of sadness and longing that she felt for Reesa. He would call periodically and give her an update of his job situation, but he never really had any specific plan or date for when they would be together again. Oumou did not really understand why it was taking him this long. She had a vague sense of him trying to get papers or documents so that they could get reunited, but not enough to feel that they had a plan. It touched me to hear Oumou’s love story. I had just returned to Mali to see Malé eight months after I last saw him, and I could not phantom what it must be like to spend years waiting, longing, hoping, dreaming …

In 2006 Malé came to visit me in the U.S. for a couple of months. On his “to-do list” was to contact Reesa, and, if possible, to see him. He was living in Baltimore, and we were planning on being in that area later in the summer. They had already spoken a couple of times on the phone, and Reesa decided to visit us in NYC. He had lived in DC, Maryland and Virginia for almost 5 years at this point, but he had never been to NYC. He came to NYC for 3 days and Malé showed him around. He also had not had a day off from work in the last couple of years, and he was savoring feeling like a tourist on vacation. He was eager to hear about Oumou and Mami, and he pored over the photos that I gave him. Eventually he told us all about his life in Baltimore, about working in fast food restaurants these last couple of years, making $5 or $6 off the books, working 7 days a week, sharing rooms with several other guys, being robbed, ripped off, being sick, being lonely. Every two weeks or so he can send $100 or $150 to his mother and his sisters, and less to Oumou and his daughter. He was telling us that he has been trying to get legal status for years, and his only chance was to get married to an American and apply for a Green Card that way. A marriage that he had counted on several years ago did not work out, but now he had found another woman who agreed to marry him. He told us that he currently was living with her and her son, and he was hoping that in a couple of months he would have legal status. He assured us that his relationship with that young woman was “strictly business”, and that he was doing everything he could to bring Oumou and his daughter here.

Later he spoke even more about his frustrations, and how he was feeling trapped. Here he was, a 45-year old math teacher, taking pizza orders, working from sun-up to sun-down, never having laid eyes on his daughter, never going out, never having fun, always afraid of getting caught. He mentioned that often he wished that he could just return to Mali, just give up, and resume his old life there. But he realized that he could not. He could not admit to defeat, admit to having failed to accomplish what he set out to accomplish. His mother and his sisters were counting on and benefiting from that $100, $200 that he was sending. He could not stop sending that. His unhappiness and loneliness was no justification for giving up. That sacrifice was a given, was so expected, that he could not even talk to anybody about that. He was not going to get any sympathy. He knew the rules: it was more honorable to die at this point, die from exhaustion or disease or crime, than to return without enough money for houses, cars, businesses etc. for the whole family. And then he mentioned something that came as a surprise to me: he said that often he would speak to Oumou about that, about wanting to come back, wanting to give up, and that she, too, told him to stay. To stay and to find an American to marry and to send for her. He would tell her that life was not all that good over there, and that they could have a good enough life in Mali, him working as a teacher and she as a beautician, but she would not want to hear that … So he continued to lie to her and his family, like they all did, and he would just say that everything was fine, he was fine, the job was fine, the life there was fine. “Oui, ça va très bien ici …”

Later that summer Malé and I traveled down to the Baltimore area. We went and visited with Reesa and several other Timbuktians, who all lived in Baltimore. The evening was spent eating and catching up on common acquaintances and family members. A young man missed dinner because he was held up at gun point when he was making his last food delivery. He eventually showed up, pistol-whipped and bleeding. The reactions of the others showed that this was just an all too familiar occurrence in this high-crime area. They all had stories about being robbed, beaten, cheated, ripped off etc. as they were working as cab drivers, delivery people, cashiers, or vendors.

We also met the young woman who Reesa had married. They were living together still, as they were filing for papers to change Reesa’s legal status. Reesa was hoping that it would all work out, but he had some concerns. It seems that the woman was changing her mind about the relationship being “strictly business”: she liked how Reesa was kind and caring towards her six-year old son, and towards her. She liked how Reesa was hard-working, and that he did not drink or do drugs. She told him that no man had ever treated her this nicely. She did not think that she wanted him to move out after all. Reesa was getting nervous: the deal was to just get married, file the papers, and once approved, move out and get a divorce. So that he could bring Oumou over. If he pissed her off in any way, she could just pick up the phone and call the cops or immigration. He was in a really vulnerable position.

Eventually Malé returned to Mali, and he talked to Oumou about Reesa, and he told her that it was really up to her, that she can decide to continue to wait for him, and she can decide to move on. Yes, he seemed to love her and genuinely wanted to be reunited with her, but, no, he did not really have a date or a plan, nor does he have any papers …

Reesa? He is still over there, chasing the American Dream. And Oumou is still here in Mali, with her sad love story. And one day soon she will have to explain it to her little girl …

Malian Love Stories - Part 2

It was Sunday morning, and we were having coffee on the terrace. Malé’s phone rang, and as he was responding to the call I could tell –even though he was speaking Bambara- that the news was upsetting. When he finished the call he told me that it was Adama who had called, the husband to his younger sister La Veille.

[La Veille is really called Aramata, named after an old auntie. However, here it is never polite to call an older relative by their first name; instead, one refers to them as “le vieux” or “la veille” (“the old one”, or “der Alte/die Alte” in German), even to their face. So therefore, young children named after elder family members will be called “le vieux” from birth on. - Referring to a two year old as “le vieux” really takes some getting used to ….!]

Adama was upset with his wife and wanted Malé to help him by talking to her. He felt that she was being difficult and stubborn, and he knew that she would listen to her older brother Malé. It seems that La Veille became upset last night when Adama told her that he will get married next weekend, and that she will have a co-wife. He was counting on Malé to calm her down … Malé was taken aback. He had always really liked Adama and felt that he and La Veille had a loving marriage. (Above is a picture of them.) He could not believe that Adama would do something like this to his sister! He hardly made enough money to support his wife and their four kids, but he felt that he needed to have a second wife? Adama knew that La Veille would be hurt by his announcement, and now he was trying to enlist Malé to smooth things over? No, Adama was told, Malé was going to support his sister and not Adama.

Malé immediately called his sister. She was furious, but calm. No, she did not see that coming at all. He had never hinted at wanting a second wife. They hardly had enough money to cover the rent every month (about $80). Last night, at dinner, in front of the kids, he announced to her the big news. She replied that in that case she will leave him, that she will not accept a co-wife. The kids started to cry, fearing that they would be loose their mother. It was horrible. Eventually Adama left the house, shaking his head at his unreasonable wife. Malé told his sister that it really is her choice how to deal with this matter, but that no matter what her decision, she can count on Malé’s support. She should not feel that she has to stay with Adama because she is financially dependent on him. La Veille appreciated Malé’s response; she knows that she can count on him. Later that day, as her other siblings and her mother found out about this event, she received similarly supportive calls. She just had to make her decisions, and her family would support her.

[Other women are not so lucky. When their husbands present them with a new co-wife, they often feel that they have no other option but to accept their husband’s decision. Usually the woman does not earn any income, or just very little, and depends entirely on her husband to support her and the kids. In addition, they will get very little sympathy from their family (having a co-wife is not seen as a very tragic occurrence in the bigger scheme of things), and/or their family is in no position to take on the financial burden of supporting the woman and her kids. The wife could go to court and divorce the husband officially, but if she has no income, the husband will get custody of the kids. So leaving the husband really means either leaving the children as well, or living in poverty with them – her choice.]

Adama was not around all week. He was waiting to see what La Veille would do. And La Veille was waiting to see what he would do. The children were sad and scared, and waiting to see what their parents would do. I was holding my breath. I was glad that La Veille was angry, but calm, and that she knew where she would draw the line. I was so grateful for Malé’s position and support of his sister.

When we visited with her the following week, it was apparent that she had lost weight. She hardly spoke. Adama had married the other woman; it was official now. And La Veille had made her decision: she would not leave him. She was staying for the kids …

[Malé and I speak a lot about the institution of polygamy in Mali. Since it is unfamiliar to me I always have a lot of questions about it. For instance, in this case I really was wondering about Adama’s motivation. He seemed happy with his wife, even though they were always struggling financially. So why would he want a second wife and all the responsibilities that that entails? If he just wanted to sleep with another woman he could easily do so without marrying her. Malé feels that he did it just because he can: a matter of status, perhaps, feeling like it’s the thing to do, maybe. Finding a woman here that is willing to marry you is apparently easier than me finding a can of cat food! You don't have to be good-looking, successful, smart, tall or especially nice. And if you don’t have the money for the dowry … no problem: you get the woman on credit! You can pay later, or, if you are not happy, you send her back. And if you don’t have the money to set her up in a separate house, then you just leave her at your parents’ house, or move her in with the first wife (like Moussa did). Your first wife does not really have to consent; you just have to get her used to it afterwards. The government requires couples that get married officially (at City Hall) to declare if they will practice monogamy or polygamy, and so the wife has to consent to future co-wives. However, many couples never get married legally, and even if they do, the husband can always change his mind and marry a second time, and the wife basically will be in the same position as La Veille…]

Malian Love Stories - Part 1

My neighbor Moussa lives next door with his mother, his wife, and their children. His wife is beautiful, and the mother to his two daughters and toddler son. Like him, she is Peul. She has a nose that is long and curved, and the longest eye lashes ever, as do all of her children. I don’t encounter her much as she usually is inside her house. But when I do, we greet each other warmly and speak a little in French about the day’s events or the weather or her children. I just know her as ‘Madame Moussa’.

One day, as Malé was leaving in the morning, she asked him to take her to the clinic with her toddler. He was feverish, and she wanted him seen by a doctor. When she was seated in the car, Malé inquired about her health and how things are with the family, the usual greeting formalities here. As soon as he said that, she began pouring out her heart to him, as if she had been waiting for that opportunity. Oh, she told him, she is suffering greatly. Had he noticed how Moussa’s mother treats her? Never a kind word for her, nothing but scorn and criticism. She does not like her daughter-in-law, never did, and does not like the children either that she has given Moussa. Has Malé noticed that Moussa’s mother is never holding her grand son? (He had in fact, it was very noticeable.) Madame Moussa revealed to Malé that her mother-in-law has been pressuring Moussa to take a second wife. Apparently Moussa had been married to another woman before and had a young son with her. Things did not work out and they got divorced. But now Moussa’s mother wanted her son to re-marry that woman as his second wife, and move her into the house where he lived with Madame Moussa. Madame Moussa was desperate. She stated how much she loves Moussa, and how she did not want him to take a second wife. They were struggling as it was, she confided in Malé. If it wasn’t for her family helping them out, she does not know how they would make ends meet sometimes. Would Malé be so kind and try to talk to her husband? He must make him understand that it would not be wise to take a second wife at this time, given their financial difficulties.

Malé dropped her off at the clinic and, when he returned at the end of the day, told me about Madame Moussa’s words. He was saddened by her story and her obvious distress; it made him think about all the other times that women had been hurt by their mother-in-laws or traditional customs. He attributed part of the problem to the custom here in southern Mali that the mother-in-law lives with her son and his wife, something that his people, the Songhaï, do not practice. Often the mother-in-law will treat her son’s wife worse than a servant. He also feels that women in particular tend to enforce and uphold these ancient practices (of polygamy for example) to ensure that the following generation of women suffer as much as they had. (We knew that Moussa’s father was living in Ivory Coast with another wife, which is why Moussa’s mother was living in Bamako with Moussa.) He decided that he would try to talk to Moussa.

The next day he spoke with Moussa early in the morning, when it was still quiet in the neighborhood. Moussa told him that he knew about how his wife was suffering, and that he, too, did not think that it was a good idea to take a second wife. However, his mother was absolutely insisting. He had already sent several of his male relatives to her to speak on his behalf but to no avail. His mother had made a decision, and he as her son was not going to dare to disobey her. He did not feel that he had a choice; there was no way out for him. The second wife would move in a couple of days.

A couple of days later I heard loud voices, women’s voices, in front of the door, yelling at each other. Later Malé found out that tea had been spilled in a scuffle between Moussa’s mother and his wife. The second wife was due to arrive that evening and move into the second floor of the house, and Moussa needed a mattress for them. His mother suggested taking the kid’s mattress and letting the kids sleep on the floor. That infuriated Madame Moussa, and it came to a shouting and shoving match between them. But nevertheless, later that day the second wife arrived, and presumably slept on the kid’s mattress with Moussa on the second floor, while his first wife slept on the first. The kids slept on the floor. Things would be different in their lives from now on …

Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore!

As I am sitting on the terrace, ice coffee in hand, watching the cats play in the garden, some music in the background, pondering my life, it almost feels like I am in a very familiar place (New York, Berlin, Santa Fe, …), and not very much like I am in Bamako, Mali! But if I sit here long enough, I think about things that I have experienced in the last five months that have been decidedly un-familiar and that could have taken place only here, and never in New York …

Fridays we have Mutton for Lunch
Who needs a planner? I know it’s Friday when I hear sheep bleating in front of our gate. Our neighbors to the right are Tamashek (Tuareq), and they like their roast mutton! (Even Malé, the original carnivore, remarks about the Tamashek that they eat a lot meat. So you can just imagine…) Every Friday morning somebody tethers a frightened sheep to the tree in front of the house, where it bleats for a couple of hours. Around 10am or so the animal is silenced with a swift cut to its throat, and with remarkable speed is skinned, gutted, and chopped up to fit the cooking pots. I have learned to not leave the house during that time – I will just wait for an hour or so, rather than witness the procedure. Something about watching an animal bleed to death, still kicking its legs, so early in the morning … Later that day the neighbors to our left (regular old Bambara) start roasting the mutton’s head. (I know that they do when the stench of burning fur wafts into the house). Every once in a while the Tamashek send over an animal part as a gift (leg, shoulder, ribs…). (They probably feel sorry for Malé because his wife does not cook him a sheep every Friday.) As soon as they leave I re-gift the leg/shoulder/ribs to my neighbors on the left. I don’t have the utensils to cut something like that into smaller pieces, but they do. Later that day they send us a pot of whatever sauce/stew they cooked up. I’ll eat the sauce, and Malé eats the meat. All around it’s a perfect arrangement!

Bathroom Story #1
Shortly after we moved into this house both sink faucets in both bathrooms broke, after having leaked, dripped, and jammed for about a week. They broke because they were the cheapest possible faucets, entirely out of plastic with a thin coating of metal (or silver-colored substance anyway), made in China. (They cost $3 in the hardware store, so that gives you a reference.) We called the manager of the property, and he came over later that day. We urged him to replace the faucets with something that was of better quality so that they actually would last. (Maybe something top-of-the-line, like for $5!) The faucets that he had put in the next day were so poorly made that they must have been Chinese “rejects” from the 90’s, before they started exporting everything to Africa. They both broke two days later, hours apart. (It was actually quite impressive, the way they both broke in the same manner, just hours apart. Maybe I misjudged the manufacturer, and I was actually witnessing an ingenious example of engineered consumerism … ) We decided that it would save us a lot of grief to forgo getting the property manager involved, and instead just pay for the material of our choice. We splurged on two Italian faucets, and I am happy to report that they are still working nicely …


A Love Story (Malian Version)
Malé has a friend whom he calls “le grand ton-ton” (the big uncle). He is really nice, and for ten years he has been married to an equally nice woman. They are both health care providers and –although originally from Timbuktu- live here in Bamako. They have never conceived any children, which causes the couple and their families much distress. His family, especially, has been putting pressure on the Ton-Ton for years to take a second wife, something that his current wife does not want. Apparently they really love each other a lot, and up until now they had been able to keep his family at bay. Recently we had been to their house for dinner, and found out that after many months of unemployment the Ton-Ton just was hired to work for the state, providing health care services to employees of one of Mali’s gold mines. He was very happy about that, and prepared to report for work later that week. Unfortunately he would have to live there as well, since it is about 6 hours away, and would only be able to come home every couple of weeks.

Afterwards Malé told me that while he is happy that his friend found work, he is also worried about the Ton-Ton and his wife: once the Ton-Ton lives so far from his wife, he will surely succumb to the family’s pressure and let them select a second wife for him (one that is fertile!). He will agree to it because he, too, wants to have children, and he does not want to leave his current wife. His current wife will be heart-broken about the second wife, but she will not leave him. Instead she will try to be the better wife, and shower him with food and other tokens of affection. She loves him too much to leave him, Malé predicts, and even if she wanted to leave him she would hardly find the courage. A woman who has not conceived will not easily find another husband. Here, where marriage and procreation are a woman’s most important accomplishments, this woman will feel shamed and betrayed, and yet hold onto her husband and her marriage. (But what if he is the one who is infertile, I interject. Would she get to take a second husband? I just had to ask …)

I feel sad for my sister, and –again- I am filled with gratitude that my life is so different. I cannot imagine thinking or feeling that way, and having so little control over my life. (And if you are wondering: because Malé already has 4 kids he has fulfilled his quota, and I am off the hook!)

The BYOB Hospital
A while ago Malé’s nephew Hamédou ended up in Bamako’s biggest hospital with a really badly shattered leg. Luckily Malé’s sister-in-law works there, so thanks to her connections the boy’s leg was operated on and reset right away. Hamédou’s mother and aunt took turns staying there with him. We were lucky that Hamédou had a bed and that he had been treated, but aside from that it was a BYOB-type of hospital: the family had to feed him, wash him, dress him, change the bedding… Whoever was not staying in the hospital was at home cooking meals and washing clothes. The room contained about 6 beds, and most beds were shared among patients. Additional patients were lying on mats on the floor, as were family members and visitors. In one bed was a young man who had been in a motorcycle accident and broken his thigh bone. His leg was swollen, but so far it had not been set. Instead, the doctors had attached a cast on his foot, and a rope with a rock on it. I was not really sure what the purpose was: the weight was to pull at the leg and prevent something or do something. I admit that I am not a doctor, but surely the real objective was to set the bone and put it in a cast! One week, two weeks, and then three weeks went by, and the young man was just sitting on his edge of a bed he was sharing with a very old man. Several times Malé went looking for a doctor to advocate for this young man, and to find out why he had not been treated. He never found a doctor. (Meanwhile I wanted to write an exposé a là Geraldo Rivera, publishing all the scandalous and outrageous conditions at this hospital!) Finally one day after more than three weeks we arrived and he finally had a cast on. They had to re-break the bone to set it properly. Duh!

One time we arrived and found everybody in the court: patients and family members, with their beds, mats, cooking utensils, clothes, everything. It turned out that that day they were spraying the hospital rooms against mosquitoes, and so the rooms had to be vacated from early morning until 4pm that day. A couple of patients died while being moved. There were no stretchers or wheelchairs to move them, just family members to carry them.

One day a man arrived with his badly wounded friend. He and his friend were “vagabonds” (homeless? Alcoholics? mentally ill? Criminals? Hobos? The term could describe all of that…), and his friend’s leg was crushed by a moving train. He stayed with his friend in the hospital, and tried to get a doctor to see him, but to no avail. The entire time his friend was suffering and bleeding and begging for help. We were told that after four days the “vagabond” suffocated his injured friend with a piece of clothing and left the hospital. Now the police was looking for the man in all the known “vagabond” places. I was appalled, and had so many questions: did he kill his friend to end his suffering? Was the man really suffocated, or did he bleed to death and somebody concocted the story to shift the blame? Is the hospital being questioned about leaving somebody untreated for all that time? But the questions were really just rhetorical, I already knew some of the answers, and I would never get the others ...

[During this time a young French medical student was staying with us. He signed up to complete a 6 week internship at the other big public hospital, and he would come home every day depressed and angry and outraged and discouraged and disgusted at the conditions at the hospital, and the behaviors that he was witnessing. While he understood that part of the problem was a simple lack of funding and access to resources, he also identified other aspects of the problem that could not be explained by that. For instance, as we know, the simple act of washing ones hands between examining patients prevents infections and saves lives. He was assigned to senior staff and shadowed them every day for 8 hours, and he never saw them wash their hands. (Not before their shift, not during, not after.) All 12 patients that he was assigned to follow died within three weeks from –according to him- preventable and treatable causes. Even though there was not enough staff, he hardly was assigned any work and was bored for most of the day. He would see his colleagues take naps throughout the day, and was encouraged to do so as well. He barely was able to finish his assignment; he could not wait to get out of there. He felt overwhelmed by the enormity of the problems, and completely powerless to change anything.]

After 4 weeks Hamédou was finally released from the hospital. Once I saw his leg without a cast or bandage I realized that we were lucky that he was alive, and that he had not lost his leg. He has two huge Frankenstein-like scars, which run the entire length of his lower leg. Apparently the bone was shattered and protruding in several places. Who knows what would have been had his family not had the connections and the money to ensure his treatment….

After all this …
You read all of this and you wonder why I am staying here? You just heard about skinned sheep and dying patients and dripping faucets and you have to be curious about my life here … Well, I like it here: at night we eat on the roof top, and I hear the muezzin call for prayer, and I see shooting stars, and I have a mango tree in the yard, and the food tastes good, and I meet very nice people, and I love going out at night and listening and dancing to Malian music, and I love how the cow herds stop all the traffic when they cross the street, and how the Niger river is wide and untamed and has just three bridges, and I like how peaceful it is here, and I like how men will show their respect by placing their hand over their heart while greeting somebody, and I like learning things about the people and languages and cultures, and I like going to places and feeling like I have stepped inside a movie, except that the set is real and the people are no actors, and I like the possibilities and all the potential that I see everywhere I look, the transformation that is in the making, but most of all I am here because Malé is the most amazing man that I have ever met, and makes me so happy I could burst! And so I am here, shaping and making my new life with Male and his kids and my three cats, and a skinned sheep or two will not even break my stride….!

Dear Uncle in Timbuktu!

Dear Uncle in Timbuktu!

I apologize for just now finding the time to write to you … Malé and I have been very busy, but this weekend I finally had some quiet time, and wanted to take the opportunity to give you an update, and above all to thank you.

As you know, Malé arrived here in Bamako on the 11th of June. I knew he was on his way, and I was anxiously awaiting his arrival. I was literally standing by the window for hours, waiting to see his car turn onto the street. He had driven the 1000km almost without break, just stopping once for a catnap. When he finally arrived, I was taken aback by how tired he looked: the last two weeks had taken their toll. But soon all the anxiety and stress were replaced by relief and happiness: we were together again, and we would begin our new life together.

We discussed where we would live, and it became clear that for several reasons we would best stay in Bamako. Soon we started looking at houses and apartments to rent. I felt very savvy and professional, since I had been through that experience already, and was able to set the parameters from the get-go: well – no, running water – yes, real kitchen – yes, extra quarters for staff – no. We saw several rejects, and finally one house that needed some work, but had potential. But the owners were agreeable to my demands, and we made an appointment for the next day to sign the lease. Thinking that his wife was done shopping, Malé wanted to cancel our next and last appointment for that day. I wanted to keep that appointment, since you never know, and I was not done shopping until I was back on the A-train with my Century 21 bags in tow – so to speak.

So we went and met this other man, who wanted to show us a house in a neighborhood called Faladié Sema. (We had been in this neighborhood for a first time in February, when we visited some friends. They told us that they liked living there because the neighborhood had one of very few gardens in Bamako. Later we dropped them off at the garden and the sight of its palm trees and flowers and rosebushes and lawn was so extraordinary that Malé and I talked about it for a long time afterward. Bamako to us until that point was about traffic jams and pollution and noise and garbage. I had mentioned to Malé that if we ever had to live in Bamako, I would only want to live there, by that garden.) So, when the car turned onto the street that lead to the garden, we exchanged cautiously optimistic glances, thinking that maybe we would be shown a house somewhere in the vicinity of it. When the car stopped at a house right in front of the garden, we looked at each other in disbelief. What are the chances …!

We entered the property, and found ourselves in a lovely little court, shaded by a huge mango tree and a flowering bougainvillea. Potted plants were everywhere: ferns, palms, aloes, and other exotic specimen. Some steps lead onto a tiled terrace and from there into the house. The house opened into a large living room, and to its left were two large bedrooms and a bathroom. In a room behind the living space was a large, European-style kitchen, with –YES!- built in cabinets, running water, electricity, and space to put the refrigerator. A staircase led to the second floor, where we found another huge living room with dining area, two more bedrooms (with A/C!) and another bathroom. Of the living room was a lovely balcony. The staircase continued and led up to the roof, which offered a nice view of the garden and the neighborhood and its many eucalyptus and palm trees. Behind the house was an annex building with another two rooms and a bathroom. A separate staircase led up to another roof with a laundry line. All in all it was exactly what we had hoped for, but never thought of finding. Malé negotiated the rent price, and after a while we agreed to sign the lease for 175,000 CFA a month – about $350.

Settling into Bamako also meant settling down with Male’s three older kids. He brought them back from Timbuktu the last time he was there on business, about 5 weeks ago. They are here to spend their summer vacation in Bamako. Moctar, 13, Hamsétou, 9, and Moustaphe the Bandit, 5 ½, have had many adventures so far: they have learned to swim, how to take care of two kittens, how to play on the computer, how to manage your allowance, how to clean your room German-style, eat Nutella for breakfast and Quark for dessert, make collages, complete word scrabbles, and read books at bedtime. We are discussing what will happen after the summer; I know that Malé would like them to stay with us in Bamako.

So, dear Uncle, life in Bamako has been good for us so far. This house has been such a gift: it is so peaceful and rejuvenating. Just last evening we were sitting on the terrace, and listened to the birds in the mango tree chirp, screech, and sing. But there are other perks to living here as well: I can eat Pizza, go to the movies, visit the French Cultural Center for a concert, hang out at a pool and eat ice cream. There are plenty of ex-pats and foreigners in the city, and I am afforded a certain degree of anonymity. There is a small supermarket in walking distance, where I can buy French butter, dishwashing detergent, toilet paper, and other essential supplies. It gets even better: we have DSL at the house so that I can be online or call friends with SKYPE whenever! In addition, I don’t have to worry about mean little boys wanting to hunt and eat my kittens, like I would have to in Timbuktu! No sand storms here, either. All in all, my life here in Bamako is probably a lot more comfortable and easier than it would have been in your town, Timbuktu.

So, I need to thank you after all. Thank you for being close-minded and prejudiced; thank you for fearing me and what I represent. Thank you for forcing Malé to choose between following your orders or following his heart. Thank you for facilitating what was probably the most romantic, most overt act of love and devotion and commitment displayed by two people. (The kind of stuff that we often see in the movies, and not often enough in real life.) Because of your desire to sabotage our relationship, we were afforded the opportunity to affirm our love with the support of our friends and family.

I am sorry that you could not change your position, but I understand. You have a lot to loose after all; you power and authority was challenged by Malé’s refusal to change his heart. If you had permitted him to be with me, all the young people that look up to him may have gotten some funny, subversive ideas of their own! And the next thing you know you will lost everything that you have: the ability to control by instilling fear. So I understand: you were fighting for your survival, the survival of your way, your world. But we were fighting for our world: one where people can make their own choices, one where belief is a private matter, one where love, communication, tolerance, acceptance, curiosity, and fun are more important than dogma and obedience.

So, if you are ever passing through, feel free to stop by and say “hi”. We would to chat, sip some tea with you on our terrace, and show you our world….

All the best,

Haike