Bamako

Bamako is a city of about one million people, and is the largest urbanized area in Mali. I wasn’t at all sure of what I would find there. I couldn’t really imagine a third-world city. Would there be infrastructure? How much? Sewers? Stoplights? It was easier to think about my host family,: I only knew that my host father’s name was Idrissa Dante (not a name I had run across in the oral histories we had read in class), and that there were two kids, ages 7 and 3 1/2 . Before leaving I indulged in imagining what the house would be like. From the films I had seen I expected a mud hut, or perhaps the standard middle class dwelling, the mud brick or concrete concession: a main courtyard surrounded by three or four 10x20 foot one room structures. I expected chickens and goats and sheep to be milling around; I expected to share a room and probably a bed; I expected an outdoor toilet, no plumbing, and lots and lots of children and cousins and grandparents. This, Cherif had told us, was what Mali was really like; large families, small spaces, no running water.

This, in fact, was what I saw from the bus windows as we drove into town. I was shocked, but not surprised, to see shacks, half-completed construction jobs, dirt, animals, poverty, open sewers. This was also what I saw when we ventured out of the CRES dormitory into the neighborhood near the University during our first few days there. And in Nana-Kenieba, the village we visited for orientation before meeting our families, the scene was much the same.

Cherif’s house in Bamako was immense, typical of the architecture of the elite class. The front living room had a set of plush furniture, a tv, and a coffeetable; there were several bedrooms, a bathroom, and a kitchen that opened into the house and also into the courtyard, so that servants could enter without going through the house. The second floor was open to the air, and a roof provided shade for the dancing and drumming workshops Cherif organized.

We spent a lot of time there the first week; eating dinner and lunch, bonding, adjusting, and when our families began to come to pick us up, we all wondered how different their lifestyles were. We had something of an idea already: Claire, a Carleton alum who had just finished her two years in the Peace Corps, had told us a little about our families. But she gave us only bits and pieces: Sebastian’s father was in a wheelchair, lived miles outside of town, and had no plumbing or electricity. Jill’s family were very strict Muslims, and had refused to come to any of the group parent meetings, or the initial soirée at CRES where we chatted awkwardly with our families before leaving for Nana Kenieba. Claire had said that my family was great: they lived up near the president, they had a huge TV and stereo system, American CDs, and great jobs at the UN and USAID.

I had been afraid to ask Claire about them for fear of acquiring any expectations. I had purposefully not imagined possible scenarios and had ignored rumors that all the families were from Cherif’s brothers’ circle of friends, i.e. the Malian elite. I had been preparing myself for anything, and anything meant the worst possible conditions. When our families began picking us up, we all watched as Morgan drove off in a huge SUV, and Rosha’s father gave several people rides in his old blue Peugeot because their families did not have cars. I was one of the last to be picked up, and was trying to quell my nervousness as a car pulled into the driveway.

My host father strolled through the doorway, kids in tow, smiling beatifically, like a tall skinny Buddha. We put my things in the car: a new Volkswagon Passat station wagon, with a cd player. I was excited about this indicator of wealth and at the same time trying not to care, but the truth was that I had been placed in a very comfortable environment. We drove home along tree-lined boulevards and eventually arrived at the house, which was unremarkable from the outside. A large wall topped with decorative metal spikes surrounded the one-story house. Our guardian, Moussa, opened the garage gate, and we pulled into the driveway.

A quick glance informed me that while the driveway was also the main cooking area, there were no chickens, no goats, no sheep. There was a dog in a dog-house who came bounding out, barking, and was stopped short by a chain. We went in the house and I was shown my room. I had my own room. I had a king size bed with little cabinets built into the headboard, a closet, and, luxury of luxuries, air-conditioning. I held back a grin, still wanting to believe that I would have been just as happy to find a mattress on a dirt floor amid three small children.

The living room was similarly impressive. The TV dominated one corner: a couch and four easy chairs surrounded an ebony coffee table, and the shelving unit held not only a Sony Stereo system but an IBM computer and printer. Economics and development policy books in English and French lined the bookshelves, and Bonnie Raitt and Boyz II Men cds were scattered near the speakers. Dante led me through the rest of the house: a sunroom looking out onto an empty pool; another guest bedroom they were using as storage; their bedroom, and the kid’s room. I was informed that when Dante’s cousin arrived in a few weeks, I would move into the kid’s room with Aicha so that Madou could sleep in his customary digs.

I was awed. I was struck dumb. All I could do was smile at my host parents and tickle the children. My shock must have been apparent, because after I had showered (and here was the only thing lacking: water had to be heated over a gas burner for warm bucket baths; otherwise, the shower was cold water) and eaten, they turned on CNN International for me.