on having a good time
8am surprise “attack” on the village of Sido, replete with balloons, flags, whistles, confetti, candy, music, a fine entourage, and plenty of honking.
8am surprise “attack” on the village of Sido, replete with balloons, flags, whistles, confetti, candy, music, a fine entourage, and plenty of honking.
Sometimes, a little help is required even if it’s just a nudge, because a smile in earnest is a powerful thing. working in Falan village, south of Bamako.
Breakfast on the go: ngɔɔmi. sourdough-like fried pancakes sprinkled with sugar, or drizzled with honey. The funny thing about street-side breakfasts in Bamako is that they never seem to be around during breakfast time: foods prepared fresh in the street (donuts, cakes, egg sandwiches) vanish by 8:30am, devoured by the masses who rose hours earlier for morning prayer. Luscious fruit stands abound on nearly every street corner, but they’re open only from early afternoon until 1:00am, 2:00am, or as late as the saleswomen can keep their eyes open. Meaning: if you’re searching for a quick breakfast around 9 or 10am…bon courage. Breakfast in Bamako waits for no one.
A busy season, for all. Pounding dried haricots in a wooden mortar, Dialakoroba Commune, Mali.
The closest thing we could find to breakfast on the road, discovered at a checkpoint-cum-rest stop of sorts between Bamako and Dialakoroba: hardboiled eggs, and skinny brown paper rolls of salt.
Found myself guilty of that slippery, easy, well-intentioned mistake of cultural re-adjustment: Believing that all people, deep down, are essentially the same, and gripping that belief as a compass through foreign territory. It’s not true, of course; there are deep and oft-divisive differences. But the big problem with the we-are-same perspective is that it’s my same informing my assumptions. How are we the same? In what ways? If any one person answers these questions, the response is rendered invalid on a collective level. What I see or expect to be equal or translatable or essential comes from my own subjective perspective. When you get down to it we are not, in fact, the same. And we are certainly not the same in any way definable by me alone. It feels like swimming in deep water, searching with your feet for something to stand on, lurching forward–sometimes in a panic–to get to solid ground. It can be deeply unsettling to realize that, in intercultural dynamics, there is no ground to stand on: it’s all about the swim. There is no quick …