September 22, 2010

Today is the 50th anniversary of Malian’s independence from France, and an enormous fete is planned for the occasion. I wake up at the usual time, glancing outside to see a great orange ball rising rapidly in the morning sky. No rain today, for sure. I put on the dress I had made from the special 50th anniversary fabric and head over to my host dad’s. After my usual breakfast of champions (siri, a type of millet porridge/gruel thing), he announces to me that I, my host sister and my friend Mahadiba will have to leave soon to get to Bamafele in time for the celebration. Bamafale is essentially the “county seat” of my area,  where the mayor and the bureaucrats are, and is apparently the central location of celebration for all of the villages in the Bafing River area.

Great, it’s a beautiful day and I don’t mind a long walk. If you walk down to the only bridge in the area, Bamafale is at least 25 kilometers–definitely not comfortably walkable in a day. Luckily, though, you can usually catch a lift across the river and then walk the rest of the way, which more than halves the distance. With this latter plan in mind, me, Hawa, and Mahadiba set off.

With the exception of Mahadiba’s occasional attempts at English–he keeps insisting that I must be so tired and deploring the conditions of African roads (“Ah Hawa, Africa! These Africans! “ with a heavy sigh indicating his overall level of exasperation)–the walk is quite and serene–until we get closer to the riverbank. Then, our first obstacle looms in the distance–a mini ravine, a wide creek running rapidly amidst cracks and crevices, due to the heavy rains of the past few months. I look around, but the creek loops around so that you can’t really go around it without going far out of the way. The ridges of mud around the creek are steep and jagged. I grimace-on the inside–there’s no way but to go down and back over again. Still, I try not to show any outward reaction to my family–I keep my best “oh yeah. I scale steep muddy creeks in cheap African flip flops and long dresses all the time” face” and silently pray that said cheap flip flop doesn’t sink irretrievably into the deep, heavy mud that is sure to be at the bottom of this opaque cesspool.

Here goes nothing. I follow my 14 year old sister’s lead, pulling up my skirt to just above my knees (maybe the only time in Mali it might be okay to see knees) and trying to inch ever so slowly down one side of the bank, looking rather unsuccessfully for footholds along the way as I slide into heavier and heavier mud. No luck, before I know it, I’ve splashed a nice layer of red mud onto the bottom of my 50th anniversary dress. So much for looking classy for the party, I think.

I try to tiptoe through the water of the would-be creek, because to try and move more quickly would surely make me lose and/or break my cheap shoes. I’m okay until I reach the other side, where I misjudge the level of mud and promptly sink in ankle deep in the red stuff. I slowly lift up my foot, which makes a squelching noise as it leaves my flip flop behind. Gross.

Mahidba, ever helpful, turns around and plucks my flip flop up out of the mud, then grabbing me by the elbow and pulling my up the other side. And then tells me how roads in America must be so much better. What can I say to that obvious, but futile, statement at this point? I say nothing and trek onward through long grasses until we reach the banks of the Bafing, wide, muddy and brown on this bright morning.

Getting across involves taking a pirogi, a very long, narrow wooden boat, which tends to have the appearance of being rather haphazardly made with jagged and uneven edges and a shallow pool of muddy river water always accumulating at the bottom. There is a line of Malians waiting at the shore for what is essentially the only ‘taxi’ service available to the town of Bamafale and other villages on the opposite side of the river bank. We make our way onto one of the pirogis, along with about ten other people and a motorcycle, balanced precariously on the front end of the boat. But as soon as we push off, the preteen boy steering the boat decides it is too overloaded with people and something has to give.

“Something” is me, Mahadiba and Hawa. We get off the boat and wait for the next one. This time, it’s not quite so crowded and there is no moto to worry about, but even so, I try to remain as still as possible  as the boat crosses the river, dipping gently with the waves. Seen from the middle of it, the Bafing is expansive, and the only noise for more than five minutes is the rhythmic dip of the paddle into the brown-green water.

We reach the other bank, but the ascent is not yet over–there is a steep muddy ridge yet to climb. I watch in awe as three tall, slender Malian women, with gigantic silver bowls on their heads and babies on their backs, gracefully make the steep ascent without so much as a slip of the foot. I curse my clumsiness, knowing that everyone behind me is going to see the inevitable fall that will occur in the next two minutes. And, true to my intuition, it does. I make it almost to the top before the big slip, which brings me to my knees and cakes my skirt and elbows with mud. Awesome. I laugh along with the Malians behind me, my frustration ever mounting.

And then it’s forty-five more minutes through tall grasses and millet fields before we finally reach the Golden Oasis of Bamafale. I am sweaty, I am dirty, and I am caked in mud after this two hour ordeal. But alas, nothing can stop a good Malian party. The jenbe (drums) can be heard from the other side of town, the women are parading around in their best bazan (fancy shiny fabric they use here for special occasions), hair done, feet blackened with henna. I spot Mari Dembele, the mayor of my commune and an all around nice guy, and give him a quick hello before finding my host father, reclining with his other teacher friends under a big tent. I sit down next to them, and watch the growing crowd circling the drum players, taking turns getting into the middle of the circle to dance.

All told, I have a great time and get the  best zame and foronton (fried rice and hot pepper), that I’ve had in Mali, along with beef (a rare, rare treat). I revel in the spirit of the crowd throughout the day; everyone is in such a celebratory mood, dressed to the nines and putting on a show. Rural Malians might not often have the means to constantly eat and dress and party this way, but when a special occasion arises the celebration is unmatched. People are still dancing as we leave Bamafele to head back to village, anxious to cross the river before it gets dark. They’ll probably go until 3am. In the meantime, Hawa and I make our way through the tall grasses without a word, both of us, I suppose, enjoying the calm and quiet.

What did this absolutely exhausting 50th anniversary celebration show me? All those things they say about the journey meaning more than the destination, for better or worse, are probably true. There’s no easy road to anywhere in Mali, and you’re bound to get muddy ….literally and figuratively. But, when it’s all said and done, an arduous journey never overshadows the welcome and celebration awaiting at the end. So, here more than anywhere, it’s about learning to laugh at your own muddy, ridiculous self, brushing  it off, and getting out there to dance!