So Many DON'Ts for Every DO
Friday night, on my way home from a great evening of dancing to the Super Diata band, as we crossed the river Niger and taximan only narrowly avoided a herd of cattle that suddenly scampered over the right lane, to their herder’s loud but ultimately fruitless dismay, I was jolted into thinking-mode.
When I opened my eyes again, the rusty machine had somehow maneuvered past every single unpredictable cowtail, and in the rearview mirror, the turban-wrapped herder and his frenetically swinging stick quickly shrunk as we continued our brakeless journey/
It was probably the closest I had come to disaster since my arrival here (apart from the little malaria-scare-ia that turned out to be a simple cold, but that nonetheless kept me in town for much longer than planned) but, paradoxically, had I plunged off the bridge in a cloud of long-horned cattle, the event would have entitled very few people to “I told you so”s or “If only she’d followed my advice”s. I hadn’t done very many don’ts, nor had I neglected too many dos. That’s something I can’t say about very many other evenings.
As we continued sliding through empty streets, carefully avoiding sharp turns, since they have been known to cause problems even for taximen with functioning breaks, I began a mental list of the advice I received before and since coming here – dos in the left column, don’ts on the right.
What struck me was the speed with which the right side overtook the left, and how, finally, I was left with a half-empty handful of recommendations, and enough to fill a bucket of restrictions.
Out of all the means of transportation that have taken me places, taxis come – by far – the highest recommended, and yet a taxi got me closer to death than any of the others have. Sort of like my English friend’s Canadian friend who had been strongly advised not to have her baby in Africa, and subsequently came within inches of being killed together with her baby in a Canadian hospital by a double dose of anesthetic.
I have been told never to get on the soutramas – hollowed-out minibuses painted bright green that plow and bump their way through crowded quartiers in Bamako, taking you almost anywhere for a quarter. The safety glitches on public means of transportation are too many and too serious, so don’t use it.
Even more condemned, and more rightly so, is riding on motorcycles. The Swedish health advisory pamphlet for sub-Saharan Africa spells it out for you in caps: DON’T DO IT. WE REPEAT, DO NOT DO IT. This is the same pamphlet whose warning regarding alcohol in hot climates ends with “If you are having trouble falling asleep sober, you might have a problem.” I am inclined to agree that motorcycle-rides are among the most dangerous undertakings in this city, since every guy on the road, including the one driving the bike you are on, think they are the only guy on the road, and only a serious accident can dispel that notion. A bus or a bumper knocking your kneecaps all the colors of the rainbow does not qualify as serious.
So having ruled out soutramas and motorcycles, you are basically left with either taxis or teleportation, since walking the streets at night is obviously also out of the question, and I don’t think they’ve published anything on the long-term health effects of teleportation, which would leave it on the DON’T-hand side of the list.
Priscilla or Patricia the Belgian teacher lady who has lived in Bamako for two plus years told me “Never eat salad” and especially not in the street, because she knows toubabs who have ended up in the hospital because of salad. And toubabs whose teeth have shattered against little stones neglectedly left among the beans, and surely there is also something wrong with the 20 cent plates of rice soaked with delicious peanut sauce, it is just so good that there must be something in it that kills you. And the cool water in the curvy clay pots in my courtyard certainly don’t have an unbroken seal, so that’s a don’t drink, I suppose. Then again, Pamela or Portia I think is screwing a Malian, which must receive a higher DON’T ranking than salad, no?
I guess really one shouldn’t go out at night, that way you can avoid committing half of all the transportation DON’Ts, and to avoid doing the second half, you should probably stay at home during the day, too/ And if you do have to venture out of your room, to, say, go to the bathroom, make sure you’re covered in long-sleeved 100% DEET-drenched clothing, and that a mosquito coil is burning in the toilet.
Except I guess I should avoid my room too, because it is not netted, and sewage flows in the streets outside, and with all the chickens running around, I’ll probably complement my malaria with aviary flu just by looking out my window. I guess coming here in the first place is a DON’T.
Going north of Gao, where I am headed tomorrow afternoon to hang out with Tamashek families, is a big no-no as well, according to the US State Department, but I get away with it, because I am not American, and the Watson only enforces country-wide travel warnings. I am not more worried about it than most other things, and in this case I actually think that the public bus will be much safer, mainly because it is a lot less likely subject to banditry than some fancy jeep, even though the jeep might be less likely to break down.
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