Author: erinwrote

what’s to eat: a christmas repas in west africa

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I spent Christmas Eve and day in Bandiagara, some 65 kilometers outside Mopti, in Mali’s eastern pocket. I was stuck somewhere between wanting to Christmas (ahem, I verbed that word) and wanting to avoid it altogether. Regardless, the night sky insisted I be at least grateful for family, friends, and good fortune, even if I felt momentarily far from all three. I recently read a few words on the magic of Christmas Eve, beyond religion, and this was the spirit I kept with me through the chilly night and the frosty beers. In the morning (well, more like lunchtime) the eating options in Bandiagara were scarce. All the brochette ladies were sold out; no one’s rice had come in yet. In the Christmas spirit of hasty mangers and serendipity, we made do at a small boutique with a front porch and a picnic table. Fresh baguette, omelette for three, and the kind of fried, canned meat whose mystery should remain just that. Actually, this was some sort of pressed chicken, although the Malians in my company insisted that all meat …

on heading eastward

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In an effort to avoid another lonely Christmas in Bamako, I headed eastward. First to Mopti, an island among floodplains sprouted with rice and replete with boats, fishermen, birds, and beautiful Sudo-Sahelian (Sudo like Sudanese) architecture, with a mosque to rival the best. On to Bandiagara, gateway to Dogon country, for an escaped Christmas Eve. 65 kilometers by moto on a mostly deserted-road [we did spot a camel!], but quick as a whistle if you ask me. We toured the town on foot, had our fair share of Castel beer, and I thanked the stars as often as possible for sticking with me through thick and thin, but mostly thin.   Bandiagara and the villages around it feature truly stunning stone architecture, a distinct departure from the mud brick and adobe that defines so much of Malian homes and other buildings. it’s unexpected, and distinguished, and I daresay downright magical. For a final excursion, we headed to Djenné, old trans-Saharan trade partners with Timbuktu, and accessible by ferry most of the year round – a ferry piled with …

what’s to eat #20

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Frou frou, or millet flour beignets, served here with a street-side morning dish of slow-roasted lamb in a green sauce with fried, sweet plantains. This satisfied a breakfast quartet, eaten by hand on the floor of a dusty boutique in Dialakoroba village, south of Bamako.

on upheaval

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A good friend used to console me with the words of her father: The only thing constant is change. There are people who crave change, and others who crave consistency, and then people like me who want both, and neither. If change is on the horizon, I cower in fear; if the status quo is all I see for miles around, I become antsy to the point of agitated. That is to say, i’m not especially adept at riding the Waves of Life. I prefer to be out there on my life raft, hand on one hip in a panic, trying to boss around the tides. As you can imagine, i don’t regularly get my way. Leaving a destructive job is a big step; doing so in a foreign land with no back-up plan is a bit outrageous. Leaving a long-term relationship is a life-changing choice; going solo in a foreign land is, quite, literally, life-altering. Doing both in the space of one week is….let’s call it bold, shall we? Bold seems appropriately kind-spirited. The biggest urge during moments of …

on what’s to eat, and a respite

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This was a respite within a respite, so to speak: A 10-hour layover in Paris between two long-ish flights, the bookend of a holiday. I was fortunate to have a French-fried friend to ease the airport doldrums, and even more fortunate that she is a great hostess (from as early as 6am!). One day, I’ll do Paris (maybe even the rest of France) slowly. I’ve only ever done it fast, which is entirely inadequate. But for now I only know the city in increments of 18 hours, 10 hours, cramming whatever I can taste/see/smell/hear/enjoy in the smallest window of time.   Arriving in the city by 7:30am, we set out to eat. First a pain au chocolat at the Marché des Enfants Rouges, only just awakening on this Saturday, then a walk about, and a leisurely breakfast in the sun at La Chambre des Oiseaux. What’s to eat? “Breakfast à la campagne” – an assortment of breads, cheeses, charcuterie, and jams, along with a warm and gingery drink. Evidently Paris sleeps in on Saturdays, so we strolled to …