HOT WATER!

I have not had a proper shower since Feb. 3 when I left New York.   I was dying to get to our next destination, where there would be (we were told) unlimited supplies of hot water, clean beds and a fast internet connection; a scheduled and much-needed 3 full days of  rest & recuperation.   I was breathless with anticipation at the thought of such luxuries!

We pulled in to Bamako, Mali’s capital, during rush hour, just as the sun was beginning to set.   It was yet again, an other-worldly experience.

The entire city which sits on the banks of the Niger River, was shrouded in a haze of smog and sand dust, a filter that failed to blur or mute the frenzy.  A two-lane road leading in to the city was being used as a 6 lane highway.   All manner of transport;  carts and donkeys, bikes, vespas, antique, broken cars and sleek black 4 x 4’s, competed for the limited lanes and chose their own direction – some north and south, others east and others still, west.  Pedestrians walked atop the cement-block -covered sewers, hopping over the loose slabs.  Vendors sat in the burning sun with their wares laid out on the ground, with only a black garbage bag, sliced open, to delineate their territory and protect the merchandise from the garbage, scattered about.  There was a massive number of one-storey, cement block structures that littered the road, all incomplete, all vacant, just facades, really.   The Malian government gives the land away provided the owner begins building within a certain time frame.   Apparently there is no similar time requirement for completion and work continues as the owner is financially able – sometimes taking decades, or even a generation, to move in.  Later, when we walked through the city's market area, in use since the 1600’s, I thought I would not make it out alive.   A single lane carried vast amounts of pedestrians, animals and traffic.   The sleeves of my tee-shirt and legs of my pants were filthy from actually touching and rubbing up against donkey hair, motorcycle grease, and loose car paint.  We walked single file, every man for himself, as we made our way through the throngs of chaos.  I bumped into three or four blind people (and it is I who bumped in to them, not vice versa) as they made their way through the bedlam seemingly undisturbed by their hit and miss approach to moving forward.    There were limbless beggars and obvious (government?) fat cats, all of us vying for an inch of space to maneuver. 

But there's no denying that this was definitely a city with panache!  Traffic signals existed (albeit ignored).  Modern buildings with fresh paint popped into sight when least expected.  There were clean supermarkets, French patisseries, night clubs and fancy (Libyan, or rather, Qaddafi-owned), hi-rise hotels and a view from the hills above the city.  

Once again, it is the Market that is most intriguing.  At once repulsive and captivating, the sights are truly revolting but the shock and novelty make looking away impossible.

Divided into trade sections (i.e., ironworks, carpentry, mechanics, wood carvings, etc.), the most bizarre was the “fetish” section.

A fetish is an object worshipped by animists (those who believe that non-human beings are spiritual entities) because it is believed to have magical powers.  As we walked past the fetish stalls I had to hold my nose because I thought I would throw up from the stench.  Neatly aligned in piles of homogenous objects, were scores of once  alive parakeets, monkey heads, a fetal camel, serpent bodies, baby owls, and a small spotted cat, a baby cheetah, we thought, all dried from the searing sun.  Most Malians are  Christian or Muslim, but still practice some form of animism and consult with the Fetish Man regarding various ailments and issues.  Those who want to become pregnant, or not, those with rheumatism, headaches, or bad knees, those with depression, mania,or rage, use their meager savings to self-medicate or pray the illness away.   The Fetish Man has a thriving business in Mali.

All our pent-up energy exploded as we danced and sang the night away in a karaoke bar, where  ex-pats and locals sang in practically as many languages as there were people. Russian and Arabic, French and German, and on and on, and on.   I had dinner in a Thai restaurant only because, according to the guidebook, it is known as the "Best Restaurant in All of West Africa".  

My much longed for hot shower was a decadent abuse of the limited water source.  I now sparkle and squeak and am ready for the 4-day overland journey tomorrow to Senegal.    Another country, another adventure.  

I have no idea when I will be back here and able to post.