July 1st (late entry)
We landed at 3am and met our driver at around 4. Somehow, on the way to the inn where we’re staying, the two cars driving us got separated, pulled over by police and after having a near heart-attack, our drivers heads down a completely black, dirt road and takes right turns and left turns all over the place, as though he’s driving us into a perfect spot for a rape or a shooting. Appearing calm, we keep our eyes peeled until we spot the other cab and the inn, and all is well. It stills astounds me to witness the human mind in all of its paranoid glory.
The main thought going through my head, oddly enough, was something along the lines of “oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t try anything, I’m too tired to fight back right now and I’m SO not in the mood for your power trips.”
A note on the climate: whoever said that Mali was hot and dry is an evil bastard who should rot in hell. Or better yet, send them here. The moment our plane landed, we hopped out, expecting a cool, twenty degree or so breeze.
HA!
It was in fact more like 90% humidity and at least 25 degrees, so we broke a sweat on contact. Add to that the 6 hour flight, fatigue and general stress of traveling, we were sticky and exhausted by the time we hauled ourselves into the inn. Our room was just as warm, at least until we found the fans, then things got more comfortable. With contacts out and malaria medication taken, we flopped down on our very thin cots and called it a night.
We woke at 9 am to have breakfast, which was lovely and served upstairs under a cement veranda, surrounded by banana leaves and flowering bushes. It looked every so slightly colonial zed, but the whole inn manages to capture that je-ne-sais-quoi that reminds you that you’re halfway around the world in one of the most beautiful countries I’ve ever seen. They served a simple breakfast of bread, jam and coffee, and while the grainy texture of the jam makes me wonder if they use cane sugar for it, it’s easy to love the food here. The coffee is strong and we made sure we left not a drop behind, lazily reading our travel guides at the table while planning our day; we had many plans.
We set out around 11 to downtown Bamako in order to settle some logistical details. First, we needed local money, known as CFAs, or African Francs. So we head to the banks, ad of all of us, I got my visa card denied. Apparently, your PIN number needs to b 5 letters or numbers to be accepted beyond Europe (and no one bothered to MENTION this when I asked if there’s anything I need to take into account BEFORE leaving). So of course now I’m painfully stressed, despite the fact that the girls are kind enough to front me any cash I need. I make a gigantic mental note to Skype-phone CIBC Visa and RBC Visa when I get back to base.
Next stop is the immigration office. You see, when we ordered our tourist visas in Ottawa, the coordinator there suggested that we save money by getting a single month visa and requesting an extension upon arrival. Saving 150$ sounded like an excellent idea, so we banked on that. Our taxi driver, now paid and happy, dropped us off at Immigration and we are able to fill the appropriate papers, making our 20 day extension only 10$ CAD. Good savings!
By now, it’s 1:30 pm and we’re both hot and hungry, so we make our way to the Grand Marché, Bamako’s biggest place of business. Not for the faint of heart, the smells and sights of the market permeate you as you become part of the background. Not that five white girls with guide books and cameras don’t stick out, but we still felt quite at ease. Besides, with kids and adults waving and accosting you, it was a perfect opportunity to confront my panic issues.
Things went surprisingly well. Everywhere we went, people were kind and responded positively, with the exception of those napping in the heat and a few women who probably felt we were stepping on their turf. A few things really stand out in our mind, though. The huge number of electronic stores was surprising, considering the poverty level. Men working on fly covered, gristly meat with machettis were a great way of cutting your appetite. Fish and fruit hang side by side, a sort of odd aromatherapy in combination with the penetrating heat.
Having been followed by many, many people as the only whites in the market, we finally find our way around enough to get to a little cantina, and there, we have our very first malian meal. Everything here begins with a rice or couscous base, then topped with different stews and thick gravies, then eaten with a spoon or your right hand. And it's absolutely delicious, except that you know everything here is cooked in palm oil. For those who aren't that concerned with their cholesterol, here's the list of fats and oils in order of nocivity, from the best to the worst:
canola oil
sunflower oil
olive oil
peanut oil
soya oil (ie. non-hydrogenated soft-margarine)
butter
ghee (clairified butter)
coconut oil
palm oil
trans fats
Yummy. My arteries aren't so sure. But hey, when in Rome....or Bamako, in this case.
Apparently, I took this a bit too much to heart, and I drank about two glasses from the pitcher of local water our server plopped on our table. Now, when you're eating for 1$CAD, you can assume two things: first, the meal's authentic to its country of origin; secondly, any water they serve you is definitely not bottled.
Panic ensues at the table as two of the girls, horrified, remind me of the painful and profuse dysentary that awaits me.
I've drunken Saint-Laurence water. I,m not about to flinch, but I know they mean well and that my small intestin will soon let me know how far I can push.
Apparently, pretty far, as there,s still no reaction, despite heat, water and spices in the food.
Huzzah!
More to come later.
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