Bamako
After an uneventful Easter Sunday, in which I went to the very impressive national museum and finally got an explanation for some of the carvings and masks I was seeing, I bought a couple postcards and a T-shirt for Kristy and drank a cup of bissap juice before heading toward the suburban supermarket. I was en route to the women’s museum, but the heat and my sore legs convinced me to buy snacks and head somewhere cheap for lunch. I’m not sure whether it’s me or my guide, but I ended up lost, turned around and completely missed the place, which I swear no longer exists. Instead, I walked into a swanky and yummy-smelling Chinese restaurant, but walked out again after checking out the prices. I ended up walking down the road to another Chinese restaurant eating really fatty bacon with peppers and green onions while watching a German program dubbed into French. I wandered back to the hotel for a shower and snooze and decided to go for a beer and company around 5 p.m., coincidentally the starting time of the Mali v. Togo football match, which Mali won. I wondered why everyone and cabs and cars were sporting Mali flags.
The next morning I woke somewhat ready to get back into journalism, but I was totally stymied by the Easter holiday. Everything on my “to do” list seemed to be closed. Even the travel agents wouldn’t take my business. I managed to find Bamako’s one functioning ATM, but it wouldn’t give me a cash advance on my Visa, despite the signs. Outside, a very persistent hustler was waiting and he tailed me for about 20 minutes, the whole time droning on about his shop and good prices. I tried everything to get rid of him: I don’t speak French, ignored him, I threaded through the crowd and ducked down alleyways. Finally I just stopped and stood there with my arms folded and even that couldn’t dissuade him. He just kept saying “Allons-y” and snapping his fingers in my face as thought I was some sort of dog. After about five minutes, I turned to a shopkeeper for help, but he was useless. Eventually another man stopped to ask what I wanted and I told him I wanted the hustler to leave me alone. The hustler tried to act as though they were old buddies, but I took off as soon as the man grasped his hand and didn’t look back.
I spent the afternoon sleeping, packing and fretting about money and interviews. And I bought my ill-fated bus ticket.
The next morning I was at the bank by 9ish and out roughly an hour later. I made a fruitless trip tot he travel agent, then realized by checking email that I’d missed the appointed time with the WFP. Flush with cash, I splurged on a ginormous pizza with oddly sweet tomatoes, then headed to the FAO for some background info on the locusts, which they gladly provided. Then I sat and read and was approached by a young Liberian refugee looking for money to phone his mom in Philly. I don’t think his story was true – at all – but the kid deserved and Oscar because by the end of his pitch, he had tears in his eyes. I told him to head to the Liberian embassy and ask to make a collect call. He left shortly thereafter.
A woman sitting in the restaurant offered me her shower and I gladly accepted. She was on holiday from Cote D’Ivoire for two weeks and she’d transformed her room into a small apartment, complete with TV and VCD play, where she told me she used to watch porn.
The next morning I woke somewhat ready to get back into journalism, but I was totally stymied by the Easter holiday. Everything on my “to do” list seemed to be closed. Even the travel agents wouldn’t take my business. I managed to find Bamako’s one functioning ATM, but it wouldn’t give me a cash advance on my Visa, despite the signs. Outside, a very persistent hustler was waiting and he tailed me for about 20 minutes, the whole time droning on about his shop and good prices. I tried everything to get rid of him: I don’t speak French, ignored him, I threaded through the crowd and ducked down alleyways. Finally I just stopped and stood there with my arms folded and even that couldn’t dissuade him. He just kept saying “Allons-y” and snapping his fingers in my face as thought I was some sort of dog. After about five minutes, I turned to a shopkeeper for help, but he was useless. Eventually another man stopped to ask what I wanted and I told him I wanted the hustler to leave me alone. The hustler tried to act as though they were old buddies, but I took off as soon as the man grasped his hand and didn’t look back.
I spent the afternoon sleeping, packing and fretting about money and interviews. And I bought my ill-fated bus ticket.
The next morning I was at the bank by 9ish and out roughly an hour later. I made a fruitless trip tot he travel agent, then realized by checking email that I’d missed the appointed time with the WFP. Flush with cash, I splurged on a ginormous pizza with oddly sweet tomatoes, then headed to the FAO for some background info on the locusts, which they gladly provided. Then I sat and read and was approached by a young Liberian refugee looking for money to phone his mom in Philly. I don’t think his story was true – at all – but the kid deserved and Oscar because by the end of his pitch, he had tears in his eyes. I told him to head to the Liberian embassy and ask to make a collect call. He left shortly thereafter.
A woman sitting in the restaurant offered me her shower and I gladly accepted. She was on holiday from Cote D’Ivoire for two weeks and she’d transformed her room into a small apartment, complete with TV and VCD play, where she told me she used to watch porn.
posted by Palmer in Africa at 6:16 AM
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