Beef pâté! A savory mix of ground beef, onions, garlic, and spices, folded into a flaky pastry pocket and fried. These are ubiquitous in Bamako, and an example of the legacy of high-quality baked goods (croissants, baguettes, etc.) instilled by French colonists.
Where I come from, you make an invitation to the morning. The morning waits for you, at your leisure, until you’re ready to ease back the curtains, slide into slippers, and entertain the gentle follies of birds beyond the window. Not so, in this place. Here, the morning creeps into you, pries you open, and delivers a weighty blow. It starts with the noise, and the noise starts early: a 5am call to prayer from the mosque across the street. and then the heat, lingering just beyond the front door. the brazen sun has no need for stalking; it lies still, waiting for victims to stumble out of their homes and into its stifling trap. Once you’re there, the blurred white noise of the street crystalizes into its thousand pieces, and they come at you from all angles: a cow bellows, ambling by; a huddle of goats next door gab through breakfast; motos tip and dip across holes puckering the dirt road; neighbors call out and chatter; children shriek and cry; dogs bark, hammers clank. …
Made a new friend at Le Glacier Moderne on Rue Hippodrome, in Bamako.
There is something about the sky in this place. It’s bigger. It’s closer. It’s right here. This sky has presence, and personality. I’ll do my best to keep us on good terms.
Lunch date this week. Only one dish on the day’s menu: Senegalese Chebjen (or Ceebu Jën, or Thiéboudienne)–rice with fish (and some vegetables, and hot pastes, and a fish paste, and a sweet paste). Ginger juice to accompany.
Yesterday: 1.5-hour trip to Tadianabougou. Arrived during a meeting between village chief, village boutique owner, enthusiastic farmer, company reps, and a few chickens. They sat in an easy circle under a most perfect tree–the kind that reaches out wide to offer shade, a good climb, and enchanting protection. Just the right tree for an important meeting. The chief wore a bright salmon-colored frock and spoke little. He sat on an old, low chair with worn plastic straps conspiring to be a seat; by the end of the meetings, the straps had parted beneath him and he slowly sunk down until his bum was nearly on the ground, legs still propped up by the chair frame. I introduced myself, and took tea. After the meetings I asked whether I could take a photograph of the village mosque, made of dirt, mud, clay. Someone asked the chief in a quick string of Bambara, he replied, and it was proclaimed in French: The village chief has authorized you to take a photograph of the mosque. Thank you, merci, iniche. …
outerNotes 