Bamako

15Oct09

The first sign that we were nearing Bamako (Mali’s capital) was the exponential increase in moto (the ubiquitous small motorbikes) traffic. I was crammed in the back seat of a pickup truck with two kids and Bonnie, a former Peace Corps volunteer who returned to Kati to work on science and math curricula. We parked and walked over to the electronics store to buy a lamp and an extension cord  for Bonnie. The streets were insane. The two actual traffic lanes were clogged (throughout the entire city) by a small number of private cars, and a ridiculous number of the held-together-by-tape-and-wires-peeling-green-paint Soutremains, the staple of Malian public transports, small busses that, judging by the two-dozen people crammed into the back (and often a few on top), have truly discovered the meaning of efficiency. On both sides of this sputtering, honking jumble, moto drivers navigate their steeds, toes brushing the pedestrians who are trying to find a foothold on the sidewalks that are basically causeways over the often open sewers and drainage ditches.

After the obligatory haggling we left the store, I was reminded just how well off my host family when the kids got new bikes and backpacks from another shop down the street. Bonnie wanted to go look at the library at the Centre Culturele Francais, so we broke off from the others and headed into the heart of the city. The first thing I realized was that the extravagantly stocked (think 50-inch plasma TVs and laptops) stores that we had been were no reflection of the real Bamako and its Grande Marche, which, as it turns out, encompasses basically the whole sprawling city. Our first stop was the artisans’ center where traditional craftsmanship is on display presumably for purchase by western tourists who – and I don’t blame them after our experiencing our trek through the exhaust and complete destitution – were nowhere to be seen.

I never realized how many friends I had until I heard the choruses of “mon ami! mon ami!” from the roaming 20 year olds whose job it was to get us into their shop. We popped in and out of the tiny storefronts that lined a maze-like system of arcades in whose shade the actual craftspeople carved and etched. I got a first-hand view of the aggressive negotiations I will have to face as a tubabu (white person) if I decide to bring home some souvenirs. Often, these men will quote you a price that is many times higher than the actual value of the object, so apparently a safe rule of thumb is to say you will pay 1/4 the quoted price.

After leaving the stifling market, we headed back out onto the crushing streets. We passed the Grand Mosque and the outer edge of the food market where I only caught a glimpse of the traditional medicine stands. Let’s just say that you don’t see piles of dried monkey heads, turtle shells, and a good-sized stack of hedgehog pelts at your local Walgreens. More tragic than that, however, were the scenes on the street: toddlers playing in puddles of shiny grey water two feet away from the roaring road, entire families sleeping in the shade of one decrepit car, kids selling boxes of tissues and phone cards instead of going to school. It was hard to imagine how this could be a metropolis on the same planet as Paris or Chicago or San Francisco.

Eventually we stumbled upon France’s bastion of colonial culture and looked around the fairly well stocked open-to-the-public library. After looking at a display about the nomadic peoples of Mali, we hailed on of the thousands of taxis (I guess this is kind of like New York…) careening down the road, and headed back to Kati.

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