La Bamba Real

As of two days ago, I'm back in the states. Still recovering. From what exactly, I'm not sure. Part jetlag, part reality check, part heartache...

Since the last couple of weeks were a whirlwind, I'm just now getting to my photos and will keep them flowing to make sure all of this was sincerely a part of my reality.

 These few are from a couple different rugby practices with La Bamba Real, the Malian rugby team I've probably mentioned before. They produce standout athletes for their national team, and practice Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays for a flexible 2.5 hrs each day.

My three running partners during one La Bamba practice. They say they prefer rugby to soccer, which is quite rare for Mali, and were intently watching the guys do everything from a warm-up run to passing drills. Scrimmages were the highlight of their week. Games, that take place on select Saturdays, was nothing less than nirvana.

"Lemein" - captain of the Malian National Team and player on La Bamba Real - looking on as his team scrimmages.

Soup and Sunshine

As promised, a recent snippet of Bamako traffic on a normal evening at 7 pm. Enveloped. That's a word that comes to mind often.

Nowadays I have a driver. I feel like Miss Daisy. A man named Abbas Maiga takes me in his tiny little yellow cab to and from the international school and wherever else I should want to go. He just started working with me on Tuesday, and so far, I really like his driving style of being cautious but quick. We have set times, so thankfully he's not twiddling his thumbs between our little drives, but he more or less has specific appointments with me. I also appreciate that his car doesn't smell like sewage or body odor, like many taxis here. He dodges the scooters like it's second nature too. I'll try to get some footage from inside the cab as I am sitting much lower than in the SUV's I'm otherwise traveling in. It allows me to be more integrated into the traffic - and much more discreet than my normal blond that is a target for the peddling kids in traffic.

I've been heading to the school this week to get ready for my next two weeks as the full-time Art Teacher at AISB. It's unfortunate that it takes up to 45 minutes to get through the traffic here from the neighborhood I live in (ACI 2000) all the way over to Sotuba, but the advantages of being where I am now definitely outweigh the temporary commute. Can I also just remark that the amount of prep work required for an art teacher to properly teach means one must complete the art projects before teaching them? Now do this for K through 12th grade, and in three days. Goodness gracious!

As for Bamako and I, we're getting along. Some days are still a bit worse than others, but I'm not as annoyed daily by the odd way that I witness the people of Mali who spit a lot and pick their noses mid-conversation (or simply see the definition of culture shock: I think one stage might be fury). Take today for instance. I was sitting in the backseat of Monsieur Maiga's cab as we drove through the market. I noticed a young mother set her 6 month child onto her back for her to tie the cloth sling around it and her. Then I noticed the baby start to slip off her back. She barely reacted fast enough to catch it against her hip with one hand before he would have fallen onto the concrete. Speaking of which, the average fertility rate in Mali is eight.

Sipping on Pom Pom apple soda at the theater's concession bar before watching the latest Mission: Impossible on Christmas Day, in dubbed French. Surprisingly good movie, not surprisingly bad soda

Needless to say, I spent an hour on the rooftop reading "The Gargoyle" after I got home from the school this afternoon. (Such a great book, by the way, but maybe not one for the easily squeamish.) I'm reading it on a my first experience with a Kindle. I still reject the concept of electronic books as a whole, but was handed it and haven't been able to put it down since.

I've been on a soup kick lately. I make up a new vegetarian recipe of soup each week using various spices and whatever carrots, peppers, potatoes, tomatoes, and onions we have around. The first had a creamy consistency from mashed potatoes, the second was a spicy broth, and tonight was a curry broth. Somehow they're really hard to mess up and I've learned that no matter what I put in, the trick is to let it sit on low for a long time. It's been a lifesaver from the boring pasta dishes and sketchy fresh dishes and meats that are ordered in restaurants. And God forbid the vote goes in for pizza again from the same place that never cooks their palm oil crusts long enough. (Note: Palm oil is used in lotions and soaps for a reason, and should not be ingested due to the inability for our bodies to process it efficiently.)

Lastly, I've got the best news to report! We found an amazing retreat. I won't even call it a gym because it's so much more than that (even though that's why we go). Ignore the fact that it appears to be a false business owned by some French mafia family - as no one is ever eating or drinking in the restaurant or swimming in the pool for that matter. We focus on what it does for us: providing us a very necessary release by running and spinning in the mini gym upstairs. One treadmill, one elliptical, two upright bikes, one recumbent bike, a row machine, free weights and a half dozen weight machines - it is the size of a large living room. Look out the panoramic 2nd story windows from your cardio machine and you see a beautiful view of distant ridges outside of Bamako and a little neighborhood that looks just like the African version of surburbia. In fact, it's very much like Edward Scissorhands except the houses have flat roofs, are usually light beige or peach in color, and their perimeters are lined in huge gates complete with a guard out front. Yay for Bamako's suburban wives! I'm guessing they totally made this place happen.

Balancing Sotuba Camp with a Metronome

Until I was able to pick up a trumpet in 5th grade, I loved playing the piano. Never too fond of the houses/classrooms I took lessons in, I did enjoy the feel of the long, slender keys and the beautiful sounds that human hands could make. To this day, I relish in musical interludes when a piano solo balances out a good beat. I'd also say that other than hearing two or three people weave their voices together, or hearing a great percussion solo, hearing a piano hits a special chord (no pun intended).

A custom-engraved bracelet from a silversmith in Tombouctou (Timbuktu)!

Being in my host family's house here in the Sotuba area of Bamako produces a lot of feelings that bring me back to my younger years. I had a great upbringing with 99.9% positive memories, but the feeling of mixed sadness and anticipation of being left at a Lutheran bible summer camp when we were about eleven years old is one that I recalled recently, here in Bamako. Back then, I knew deep down it'd be fine in the end, and that I might even enjoy it at times. I really did. But I was never one for programs or what felt like dorky group things were being forced on me.

A few other examples of this feeling...

1) Talahi Elementary's after school "KidStop" program. I know for a fact I went on only one occasion. I cried the entire time. They had to bring me outside in the cold, drizzling rain to watch my brother play flag football instead of cut out an owl in the cafeteria.

2) Daycare - Also a one time event. I was younger, probably 7 or 8. We went about six houses down, at Beckman's. I walked in circles around the play area watching toddlers play and cry, not engaging with anyone. As soon as my mom got there, she knew it wasn't our thing.

3) Anything that involved trying to be insta-friends with a bands of kids who knew the world of uncomfortable socializing all too well. ie: Ringette: a "new sport" that was like hockey for girls, except without hockey sticks and pucks, you had a ring thing and a pole with a round end on it that shuffled the ring around ice. Haven't heard of it? Most haven't. It was season one, and season end.

Here in Bamako, I get these feelings every Sunday night when I'm dropped off here. Does this make me anti-social? Introverted? Maybe both. I try really hard to be upbeat in my role as an English tutor, so maybe it's the pressure of this new role along with being a foreigner where my actions are observed and many times, questioned.

On the opposite side of the spectrum, I feel a strange sense of calm when I'm in my bedroom here. It's a simple set up, with a bed, chair, armoire, nightstands, an exercise ball and a bathroom connected. Lovely, right? I think so. When I first moved in, Laura told me that the air conditioning is not to be used during daylight hours since there isn't enough electricity for the kitchen. The a/c can be used for sleeping at night. Daytime hours use ceiling fans that are set up in most rooms. Completely used to the heat while living in my uptown, non-air conditioned apartment this past summer, I have no problem with this.

The ceiling fan in my room acts as a metronome. Supposedly, it was poorly installed. After the initial danger of it spinning off completely and landing on my bed, I realized its just an imperfect install. And now, I'm in love with it's ability to drown out the shrieks, arguments, television theme songs, and the sound of large trucks that pass by every couple hours behind the house. Although I've been told it is obnoxious during skype calls with family and friends, my Solstar fan metronome is the perfect rhythmic connection that brings my central Minnesota piano-playing past into the present, wherever that is.

Oh, and Christmas is in a week? I want snow, but I've heard it's not even white in Minnesota yet. Is that right? Maybe I'll watch Love Actually (thanks Liana!) while indulging in a few pieces of Phemie's lefse with brown sugar with Mia's biscotti.

Dusting Off Mid-December

It's been difficult to come up with a general theme for this blogpost which is quite overdue. Partly because I've had malaria and ate something wretched two weeks ago, partly because I'm busy (yeah we all are, I know. blah blah blah) but largely because the daily explosion of random events make me think they each need their own post if not for the sensitivity of the subjects. That said, I'll write this up as a rough outline of major activity.

There is absolutely nothing unusual or ridiculous about this image... in Mali.

The part that I get stuck on here in Bamako, Mali is that there is little which makes any sense at all. I can't exactly speak for outside of the city - as I've heard life is quite different there and obviously, in other parts of Africa - but within the madness here, I find myself shaking my head a lot at people who risk their lives without batting an eye. Don't get me wrong, I'm not the most prudent law abiding citizen, but I do think I want to live. I don't want to turn right from the left lane in front of a large SUV, for instance, while on a scooter with no helmet. I don't want to cross the highway at strolling speed. Now multiply this by ten. Half on your left, half on your right. Your eyes dart between the two before realizing it's safer to look at nothing too carefully. Sort of like looking through blackness at night which becomes clearer if you don't focus. It's had me honestly wondering where on earth the phrase "common sense" ever came from.

I've struggled to define the days here as part of a culture shock. Of course the nuances hit me hard sometimes as I long for a day where I can go outside without being stared at incessantly for exercising, but it feels more like us Westerners get stuck in a crossfire of irritation, sickness and the upheaval of random adventures. I'd love one day without streets teeming with potholes and people wanting to be given money or things. Let's face it: I feel more foreign here than I did in all of California (laugh as you may, this had honestly been a huge culture shock for me at first!), Latin America, Canada and all European countries combined. Yep, I'm living in a massive dusty, dirty African village complaining. I sometimes get my head stuck on that weird Baz Luhrmann song from like senior year of high school that talks about life where it says "live in New York but more before it makes you hard; live in California but move before it makes you soft." Cliche as the idea is in theory, Luhrman, darling, you ain't seen or smelled a hospital in Mali. Point blank.

I've not yet seen anyone drop bundles four times this size (we're talking folded mattresses tied with twine).

4th graders.

Onto other topics...

I really adore the American International School of Bamako, or AISB. The two days a week I spend there are filled with art, ESOL and outdoor gym classes - with small class sizes of 8 to 15 kids - and really interesting young people from all over the world. (Literally, 200 students from over 30 nations.) Beside the younger grades where paper cutting, glitter, and pastels are popular, I also teach a few tech-savvy kids in the high school class about graphic design. The school director asked if I'd lead the creation of the new school brochure and literature for potential students and teacher recruits with them, so we're going nuts for Photoshop's less fortunate half-sister, a free program called Gimp.

Since I'm only at the school on Tuesdays and Thursdays from 7:25 to 3:30pm, I do my writing on Sundays, Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays and as necessary on Tues/Thurs after tutoring my host sisters, Laura (12) and Iría (10), when they need help. Or maybe it's more like when I need entertainment. They're crazy cool chics, really smart and really confident.

Outside of AISB.

To make it even better, Laura and Iría are enthusiastic about learning English. Although the banter in the household remains in Portuguese and French (about 70/30), they explain things quite well to me which makes for good practice (I pretend I can't hear the latin roots).

Laura loves to help cook food in the kitchen, do her homework right when she gets home, and pick my brain about interior design and architecture. She's a gentle, thoughtful older sister but, like all big sisters, has her patience tried enough to bust out the discipline when necessary. Laura seems to be somewhat quiet and mellow with her classmates, and is very well-liked. But I love her ability to question everything. I could see her doing something in academia someday - challenging professors so much they'd need her to get on their team. She's going to be very tall too. Maybe I can convince her that sports aren't so bad...

Iría has a different personality than Laura even though they get along flowingly (when she's not singing at the top of her lungs). She bubbles over with so much infectious energy that she ignites a room. In public, she's quiet and polite, but at home, her laughter erupts at the dinner table on a nightly basis as she throws wigs on her dad and sings the latest LMFAO song while pushing the meat and vegetables around on her plate. I sometimes wonder how her huge personality got wrapped up into her tiny little frame...then you see her on the soccer field and it all makes sense. She's a spitfire and should be run nonstop. Before or after not eating dinner, she sneaks into the kitchen to make sweet treats, like crepes with globs of Nutella or lemonade with spoonfuls of sugar.

My host family: Laura (back), Emerithe and Iría (front). Not pictured: Mario.

I brought my yoga dvd to the house right after moving in and have done it a few times with Emerithe. The girls hated it. They said stretching hurt too much. Emerithe hits the gym each morning after dropping the girls (and I) off at school and somehow still has energy sometimes to do my 71-minute power yoga. If you met her, you'd understand how. She's a strong, gregarious, tall force to be reckoned with. A woman who loves to laugh and wear bright colors makes me adore this lady. A couple weeks back she fired their household help, Sali. Since the incident, all of her friends tell her they'll hire her to come take care of any type of issues that require "a firm backbone" since they're likely aware of the volume and opinions she has no problem sharing.

Fresh air but uninviting appearances - the outskirts of Bamako. 

Last week there was some confusion about if and when the family would be leaving Bamako for good, for a holiday vacation, or not at all. I had spoken with people about finding a new homestay this week since they'd be flying out late on the 14th (Wednesday). But as soon as I informed Mario and Emerithe of my finding a more stable living situation, they said only Mario and possibly Emerithe are now leaving. We shall see what happens. Clearly I wouldn't be able to act as head of household in their absence - driving, grocery shopping and managing the place while they're gone - and also, that is not the reason I am staying here with them in the first place. Needless to say, I've maintained sanity being as flexible as I can with the seesaw of staying and moving, as well as the hit-or-miss understanding of mixing languages.

Besides this, I'm getting very excited for the holiday season to come! The school has a break from the 23rd of December until classes begin again on the 9th of January. I look forward to relaxing a little, focusing on my writing and enjoying the time off before I get the students as a full-time art teacher for the month. I'll likely work day and night for those few weeks, but that's okay in the short-term.

I wish I could talk more about everything - since there are plenty of great stories, great kids at AISB, and memorable experiences that surround my weekends with American folks in the ACI 2000 neighborhood - but I'll leave those to emails and skype sessions. For now, know that we miss the snowfalls and holiday decorations that are light the chilly U.S. skies and wish that snowboarding, cross-country skiing, lefse-making and thick sweater-wearing coffee mornings would be in our cards so badly. But alas, it's still 90-100F... and I'll never complain about not shivering, promise. 

Thankfully, we're feeling all powered up by the incredible goodies from the care package that came over the past couple of weeks (you know who you are!). There is nothing better than knowing there's a piece of home in my back pocket as I start each day in this faraway land.

Merry Tabaski!

Just like in the states, there is never a dull moment during the week prior to the Malian Christmas of Tabaski.

Some sheep are wrapped around people on scooters, others are led by a rope down the boulevards of highways. The rest are amass along dirt ditches into the thousands. I didn't want to eat them. In my silent protest to the mass slaughtering, we offered to throw the Tabaski party at our house for a bunch of traditional, young Tabaski-celebrating friends so I wouldn't offend the chef. On top of it, they'd get to partake in some delicious, vegetable-filled side dishes :)

Backing up though...

Tabaski.
It all began on a warm Friday afternoon at 2:30pm.

I arrived in 100 degree dry heat after the SUV meandered through congested highways and then onto dirt roads before entering into the enclosed estate. Upon walking through the front door I was greeted by my friends Mariam and Rahma. I wandered after them through the dimly lit, cavernous hallways of their home. Supposedly, we were heading to an area dedicated to only women. The walls are purposely left stark - apart from the portrait or two of women in their family dressed in traditional Tuareg attire.

Upon entering, I noticed the following:
1) a lengthy wall-lined sofa that sits 6 inches off of the floor
2) the TV playing "The Biggest Loser" in English with Arabic subtitles
3) the fan pumping fresh 100 degree air through the large screened-in window.
4) a small orange cat named Bush-bush that they say so quickly it comes out "bshbsh" in one syllable.
5) Mariam's mother and the other elderly woman talking in what seemed to be a constant, beautiful flow of Arabic and Tamasheq.

A woman was getting her henna done when I arrived, so I snapped a couple pics. I hadn't met her, but she smiled at me and laughed a lot. We all did actually, this was the tone set for the entire day. Between their storytelling and reactions, and my hand gesturing to say I didn't need more rice, more stew, more bread, more water, or more juice - I couldn't help but smile thinking of Liana's warning me of the custom to fill up the guest even when she eats to be polite and respectful.

The woman in the swirls who did the henna for us is from Mauritania. She seemed like a sassy diva, making sly, doubtful faces at the girls talking. Sometimes she'd click her tongue and shake her henna covered fingers at them, or say "tsk tsk tsk" while shaking her head back and forth. It was as if she didn't agree with anything they said. Then again, she seemed do that sometimes when she nodded too. I think she saw it as co-miseration if they were maybe talking about how frustrating it is to drive around - then she shake her head in agreement.

Supposedly, she is quite the hot commodity for doing henna. Before coming to their home, she was doing henna for the female Prime Minister!

Tuaregs are different than anyone I've met. They're special. Proud, super friendly, extremely polite, respectful, observant, and disciplined. They don't get along that well with many Bambera people for some reason. I haven't figured that out completely. Other than knowing there has been tension in the past, when slavery took place, it seems they just kind of avoid each other without being rude. Nomadic by nature (they often discuss their "need to roam") the Tuareg people spread themselves through much of West Africa - in Mali, Niger, Algeria, Libya, and Burkina Faso - as well as other areas of the middle East.

After getting the henna done over the course of an hour, plastic bags covered my tissue paper-wrapped hands for two more hours as I waited in their large living room. We had tea and  ate watermelon while listening to the stories of when their father worked abroad in Nigeria and the middle east.

Rahma said my henna would not be complete for Tabaski without wearing one of her special dresses.

She placed the long, flowing chute of a dress over my head. My arms found the two arm holes well, but from there, I was lost. Rahma leaped up and managed to flip the long, 10-12ft sideways piece of linen-like fabric up and over, forming the elbow-length sleeves and head piece before whooshing it across my chest and neck like a glamorous scarf. All of this took her approximately 8 seconds. Deep indigo, this dress was beautiful - with silver and sky blue details.


For the big meal on Sunday, I chopped up a ton of vegetables for Liana's recipe of a spicy peanut soup. I spread out two crusts for spinach tortes and baked them individually in an oven I later found out only broils. Resourcefulness to the rescue... I carefully slid them onto skillets and got the crust hard from the bottom up this way, but it took for-eh-ver.

By this time it was 6:30pm. Our guests were to arrive. I dressed into my indigo robe with henna intact and noticed the dye rubs off onto your skin by merely touching the fabric.

Ten minutes later, the full, cooked lamb arrived in a huge tub... and I lost my appetite. But the night got better!

After food, where the vegetarian dishes were a screaming hit, we headed to the Tumast Center in Bamako where a couple of famous Tuareg bands played. Rahma and Mariam took me onto the dance floor after a few songs. I had watched for long enough beforehand to know what was the acceptable dance - lots of swirling wrists, gentle swaying, heads held high. I looked around. During this dance, only women were up there. Other dances, only men went up. And later, everyone danced together. I stood out as the blond-haired, blue-eyed one of the bunch, but I was definitely not the tallest. Tuareg women are, for the most part, tall. Like 5'9" to 6' tall, if not more.

Upon the completion of the night, my entire body was a deep shade of indigo blue. From head to toe. anywhere that I had touched my face? Yes, also streaking blue. I showered for 15 minutes, trying to scrub the dye off. I think I got the last of it off today (Thursday). 

Since that Sunday night, I've spent most of the week working inside, avoiding the pollution in the air. Sometimes I spend an hour with a book on the rooftop to get some vitamin D, but the city itself doesn't appeal to me sometimes. It's exhausting being in the traffic, watching scooters and cars nearly get killed everywhere you turn, and having to shake your head "no" at every stop when the kids and beggars press their faces up to the windows. Even with the exhausting traffic however, Bamako is a thrilling place to call home for the next couple of months. I'll be starting to volunteer at the school in a few days, and will move into my homestay also. I look forward to updating more frequently, hopefully, with shorter posts then.

For now, my friends, cheers to the weekend!

The Imperfect Trifecta: Foot, Bike and Automobile

Today, I snapped a few pics while heading to a Bamako grocery store.

These images depict the arduous struggle that is Bamako traffic.
They were taken a few hours ago here in Mali's capital city.

The cars, scooters, people selling goods on the street, bike riders, and open air taxi-cab-van-bus things speak no common traffic law language. The only thing you can know for sure is that if you don't drive with a vengeance, you will not move.

No one really has road rage because, as it's been explained to me, "you must live in the next moment, not the past one". Although it sounds like a catchy quote about forgiveness from a spiritual leader, it's really much more simple. They continued, "as soon as you react, seventeen non-helmet wearing scooters and a woman with child (this will always be an odd phrase for me to say outloud) are crossing oncoming traffic within inches of your bumper."

Once I got to the market, I was pleasantly surprised to find the ultra thin, unbaked crusts I used to buy for these ultra-healthy, super delicious spinach tortes I made in Italy. They don't sell the crusts in the states, but supposedly this specific grocer lends itself to ex-pats from Europe. (And now, also to Minnesotans who value the art of NOT frying everything in palm oil.) They even have the fresh Activia yogurt with the pineapple chunks. Mmm. My absolute favorite.