I'm finally writing.
After my last post I developed a strong aversion to writing for the OCS blog, my own journal, and even responses to emails from friends. While I have all of these wonderful anectodes to share, I feel overwhelmed by seemingly untenable task of translating memorable moments into tangible prose. As the experiences add up, so does my scribal inertia.
Unfortunately at the moment even all the fascinating and dramatic moments of my Bamako experience are currently overshadowed by the fact that I am sick. Again. (Since I haven't been writing, I don't expect you to remember that I got pretty sick with traveler's diarrea on the Grand Voyage.)
As a result, I'm experiencing a state of deep ambivalence and the boredom/depression that comes from being unable to be with the group on the overnight excursion to Kita or even to do the many things I want to do in Bamako such as visit the Musee National, buy fabric and other gift items at the Grand Marche, and finish the fourth and final assigned book for class. The latter is technically a must-do, but classes did end two days ago and I'm missing the trip to Kita, which is the author's hometown.
My illness is not severe, just stomach and throat pain and fatigue. It actually sucks but surviving the Grand Voyage gave me a whole new perspective on pain and suffering, so this is nothing. However Cherif wisely refused to honor my insistent request to go to Kita, which is a good three hours away, and so I've spent four days in my house. Two days of missed classes and two days of missed Kita. Those that know me also know I don't do well with resting while sick and sitting around doing nothing all day. Given my personality parameters I've actually done an impressive job of 'resting,' and the farthest I've walked is once to this internet cafe two blocks from my house.Since every cloud has a silver lining, I can't neglect the precious metal that envelops my situation of white fluff, aka relative isolation and chronic physical discomfort. I already knew that I loved my host family, but being home constantly allows me to further bond with the fam and relish in having a nearly complete understanding of their daily lives. Granted my mom and aunt work during the day and watch TV at night, so the bonding sessions primarily concern three people I already adore: maids Mariam and Aisha and chauffeur Bebe (real name Mamadou but goes by Bebe to all). The guardian of the house and confidant of mine, Amadou, has been sick too recently so we haven't chilled much during my quarantine period.
In addition, my mom has been really helpful these past few days in being my 'outside' contact. She recently read me Julia's latest post over the phone - the one about Julia's friendship with maid Adjaratu - and we both cried. My mom cried because it was incredibly moving and beautifully written; my tears were because I, too, have a special relationship with the family maids and am already nostalgic about leaving them in a week and a half. Since my energy is starting to run low and I don't want anything to impede a speedy recovery, I'll share just one example of how being stuck at home and 'missing out' on the amazingness that is Mali isn't all bad.
The story is about breakfast, which, like most everything else in my family, is pretty routine. The family breakfast consists of bread and confiture with coffee or hot chocolate. The staff meal is buie, a rice porridge. Buie is basic and tasty, and certainly just as good if not better than plain bread (I'm the only one that likes the jam), but sitting at the table with 'our food' in the salon definitely separates the family from the staff, who eat their buie crouched on stools outside in the cooking area. I don't resent the difference in our breakfasts and eating locations because I understand that in any professional setting there is a discreet distance between the employer and the employee.
If I'd been rushing off to school or in Kita yesterday, I would have missed the following morning treat: Mariam and Aisha came and sat down at the breakfast table with me. After Bibi, my 7-year-old sis, and mom Fanta and aunt Ada left the house for school/work, they appeared and sat down casually as if their presence at the table were typical. Yet Mariam and Aisha's smiles betrayed them: We might not speak the same language, but the three of us know that their being at the breakfast table was a tacit break from the traditional rules. The only time Mariam and Aisha are ever 'allowed' in the salon is to clean it, not to sit and chat over hot chocolate and baguette.
Yesterday was our secret conspiracy. In a simple and unexpected five minutes, it confirmed what I'd already hoped: I had become their true and trusted friend.
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