My name is...

One comment I often hear in the emails and notes that you send me is that people have a hard time imagining exactly where I am… there is no concrete way to give you a taste of my life here, besides my words, so here is a little montage of who I am here and what I am surrounded by. I hope it fuels your imaginations and sparks your interest.

My name here is Amie. Ahhhhh like a long, sighing, breath: opening, inviting, warm. Meee pulling your mouth into a smiling finish. Two nights after I arrived in Bamako, as I picked my way in and about my neighborhood semi lost, I was helped to find this name by some neighbors who soon became friends. A name; a friend; a breath; a smile; an inevitable entry into this world. When I walk down the street it rings after me like a song. The children who chant it, the friends who call, sometimes it sounds sharp and hard in their mouths, in a way that makes you realize they have been saying this name for centuries, and makes you wonder if it really fits you. Other times it sounds like a laugh, especially when Djelika says it- A sweet sound that makes you feel as if we have been sharing a joke, though the only things we can say to each other are hello, how are you, there was peace in the night.


I live on a growing street. It is young, though somehow far from fresh. Despite the fact that not six years ago, there was a forest standing where my house now asserts its’ cinder block splendor, Mali has quickly moved into this street and adapted itself to the needs of it’s inhabitants. My concrete fortress is beginning to soften with the growth of bouganvilla, oleander, trumpet vine and hibiscus flowers I have planted out front; I keep trying to bring back the forest with my greens, the quiet and peace of my familiar Oregon woods but by seven in the morning, the street begins to shift and move, shuffling feet along the dirt road in front of me; the workers arriving with their shovels slung over their shoulders, the banging of pots and pans as the family down the street begins another day filled with selling morning fateyers (small fried patties made with bean flour), couscous, sauce. From my roof I sit facing north towards the street and the hills beyond the houses. There is a light, scattered frosting of green over the white and orange shadowed cliffs. In the evening, Venus rises above these cliffs and glows bright in the sky. Together they are like a beacon of the peace I keep trying to attain… visible, constant, just a touch out of reach.

The people around me are alternately wonderfully new, happy, and warm, and suffocating, challengingly different. I find a tender balance of wanting to share all with these people and needing to take time, space to myself. The gangs of little girls run around barefoot in their underwear: Baini, Fatu, Maimouna, LaVeille. skinny, with little faces, beautiful eyes, and high voices. Baini has an extraordinary beauty, an loves to dress up in whatever fancy dress she can find, though clothing is really an optional luxury here as 9 times out of 10, and entire arm and chest will be bare, or they will be wearing nothing but underwear. These girls all seem to be about 3-5 years old, according to my eyes, though it is possible that they are actually 6-7, all of them very alert, talkative and smart. Most girls don’t go to school. The boys play soccer and do Karate, a grinning mischievous bunch.

Up the street is my friend Natogoma. Her father seems to have produced an uncommon number of girls with his 2(I think) wives, and has managed to put them all to work cooking for the entire neighborhood. I have counted at least 17 children living in that house; all have the same soft nose and piercing eyes. One goes to school. Though I’ve only seen him once, I don’t like her father much. In the mornings one of Natogomas mothers sits on a wooden bench on a small piece of elevated ground, serving her couscous and sauce from a tin table with an air of regal boredom. The fingers of her right hand, greasy and covered in small yellow meal are also the ones that handle the money. Aside and below, Natogoma serves her frou-frou with spunk and sass, shouting at the men, her quick voice sharp and laughing. twenty men crowd around with their plastic plates and tin spoons. This circus lasts all day long: rice at midday, mangoes with oil, salt, and chile, in the evenings, chopping onions, . When it finally gets dark, sometimes Natogoma and I go for a yahlah yahlah arm in arm through the neighborhood; somehow on these promenades, I don’t feel so strange, even though we can hardly communicate with each other. The truth is though, that I am much closer with the men on the street. I spend evenings sitting in the dark on a rough wooden bench, listening to the endless greetings and jokes of my friends Madou, Souleymann, Adama, and others. It is nice to spend time, especially since the conversation has long passed the “are you married” stage…. or maybe I like being with them because they never got to the “are you married?” questions. In any case through these guys, I learn the reality of unemployment in Bamako. My neighbor, Mohammed comes over for regular Sunday evening cook offs, and shares his poetry with me.

As much as I would like to say that I feel fully integrated here, my relationships with these people are like waves. They come and go, as I seem to run in and out of my commitment to them. Sometimes I feel as if they are still perriferel to my life. I believe one of the main reasons for this is that since I have arrived, I am more deeply concentrated on work than I believe I ever have been in my life. Another reason for the distance is simply cultural and economic differences. I can’t take them all out dancing with me; I can’t communicate entirely openly with them, and so my relationships with locals only take me so far. Sitting and drinking shot glasses of sugar and tea doesn’t fulfill me socially. I also have a pretty good core of ex-pat friends, mostly from my ONG. I spend my days in the office bouncing jokes, frustrations, limericks, movie bits and recipes with my Belgian friend, Kristien who is working on child protection. We join Maria, the wonderfully down to earth, practical Irish lesbian friend and newly arrived, energetic film maker, Fid for gin and tonics and dancing. I have a fantastic new housemate from Paris named Nico. He is typically French in all the right ways ( appreciation for good wine, food, conversation) and typically not in all the right ways too ( very open, fun, and no zeeeece eeese sooo enyuant French accent.)
He makes the token guy in our group for now, and I am surprised he puts up with us as he does.


So, there you are, take a bite: a tiny morcell of my experience; roll it around on your tongue and taste it; see if it brings your closer to me. I hope it does!