An analysis of disbelief December 13, 2006

Shock. Disbelief. Astonishment. Amazement. The more I work in Africa, the more I deny that I am subject to this sentiment. The truth is ever so contrary. After my first, introductory sojourn in Mauritania, I remember writing about how I felt reborn into a whole new world where my old, learned frames of reference were totally useless in understanding what was going on around me. I remember thinking that any and all assumptions I would make were invariably wrong. Obviously, the more one soaks in her surroundings, the more she will become accustomed to them. Sometimes we call it desensitization. Sometimes we call it routine. Many visions that used to shock and astound have now become, for better or for worse, habitual.

That said, my new designation of road-warrior has opened my eyes to a whole new universe of visual intrigue and disbelief. Some of the more common sights one might catch include: two young kids on the back of a motorcycle hanging on to their father’s shirt while speeding down the highway; an infant strapped to his mother’s back who is driving a speeding motorbike (btw, helmets are never involved); a farmer riding a bicycle, carrying 4 bails of hay at least 2 meters high on the back bike rack. A really impressive one was a guy who had sqeezed himself into the center of two car tires, sat himself on a motorcycle and was riding down the road. All you could see were his legs sticking out from below, his arms reaching over the tires with difficulty and his little face keeping watch over the road.

But today’s vision takes the cake. As you may or may not know, the first days in January mark a very important Muslim Holiday known here as Tabaski. I had the great honour of celebrating this 2 years ago in Nouakchott. This is the holiday that commemorates Abraham’s near sacrifice of his son upon God’s command. When God was convinced of Abraham’s devotion to him, he stopped him and ordered him to slaughter a sheep instead. So on the morning of Tabaski, at the Imam’s call, every family must (within their means) slaughter a sheep and celebrate by eating of it all day long. As you can imagine, during this pre-Tabaski period evey single family is in search of the best sheep around. You see sheep herders all over the place–almost at every intersection.

So, to get back to what I saw. We were stopped, motorgang style at a red light, a dozen bikes alongside us, when I happened to look over my shoulder. There was a guy sitting on the back of a motorcycle with a live, huge sheep wrapped around his body. The legs of the sheep were tied together and strapped around the back of the man. The torso of the sheep lay on his lap while he held down the tail on the right side and the horns/head on the left side of the bike. The poor sheep’s eyes were looking down at the back wheel and the road. It was hyperventilating. It’s eyes were bulging out of its head in fear as it watched cars and bikes zoom by. Imagine going from the tranquility of looking at hay and grass all day everyday to lying upside-down with your head half a foot away from decapitation on one side and lobotomy on the other. Honestly, is this what you want the last thoughts of your meal to be? I can’t imagine that an animal whose death row is lined with speeding pavement, intoxicating fumes and spinning death wheels will taste very good once it turns into dinner. They say state of mind is everything when it comes to accepting death.

I’m seriously considering going veg after this mission.

“Wrong Side of the Bed, My Right Calf!” and other misadventures of a Road-warrior December 11, 2006

Whoever came up with that “waking up on the wrong side of the bed” saying obviously had never ridden a motorbike through the filthy, crowded deathly dangerous streets of Bamako.

After today’s tumultuous but oh-so-exhilarating adventures, I’ve come up with my own more appropriate saying: “What? Did you get off on the wrong side of the bike or something?!“

Today was my first day of life as a true African Road-warrior. That’s right, my automobile-clad brothers and sisters! I am now the proud owner of an all-Malian motorcycle!

OK, fine. I’m hyperbolyzing a bit.

I am now the proud owner of a coordinator who is the humble owner of an imported motorcycle.

OK FINE!! Enough of the checks on my political correctness already! People don’t own people anymore, I know!

Basically, I have a Malian colleague who took me all over the city on his motorbike today.

I cannot begin to do justice to the frightening conditions in which these people ride. There must be about 1.7 motorbikes per capita and 1.2 cars per capita in this city. And about 2.2 pedestrians per driver. The carbon emissions must be breaking all Kyoto regulations and the traffic infractions would increase municipal revenue 40-fold were they actually fined.

And as such, we are left with unruly, overcrowded, lawless roads with far too many vehicles, far too much smog and far too scant their oversight.

We left the sheltered comfort of my hotel this morning and headed for the black market. Within in the darkest corners of any bustling African market lurk the illicit currency traders. It is here and only here that one will get a fair exchange rate for one’s foreign currency–but beware the counterfeit bills!

After walking through Heckler’s Row and being propositioned on so many levels, we walked into the tight, dingy “exchange bureau”. The small cell-like room with graffiti-decorated walls had a rusted iron counter behind which sat two men. Across from the counter sat a row of 5 men counting wads of money right there in the open. Obviously no one dares steal from them–after all a thief respects his fellow thieves.

As we awaited the transaction, a man with an entire skinned sheep draped over his shoulders, Abraham-style, but with a large piece of wax paper protecting his garments, squeezes into the little bureau. I had to contort, Gumby-style, so as not to get whipped by the unskinned tail which remained fully in tact and flagellating. I guess he thought that amid the money counters someone would want to buy a freshly slaughtered sheep. Unfortunately for him, money tastes better than sheep. He left trying valiantly to balance the limp beast on his body without sliming the thieves in Heckler’s Row. Solidarity only goes so far, you know.

We got back on the motorbike right in the tightest, unpaved, most populated area of the market. My buddy is really rather audacious with his bike. The whole time I was premonitioning that my leg would get skinned by another bike that pulled in a little too close to us. At every red light, about 15 bikes would pull up to the stop line of the intersection. They would all rev their engines. The air would get filled with exhaust and then, all at once, we would all speed forward like one huge motorcycle gang, joined only by our vehicular solidarity, but each seeking primacy in speed and distance.

And then, the realization of my vision. We arrived at our next destination. Motorbike neophyte that I am, I disembarked off the right (i.e. wrong) side of the bike. What’s that? A slight burning sensation? A rather caustic sensation? A totally scalding pain on my right calf?! AAAAIIIIIEEEEEEEE!!! My reflexes kicked in, I propelled myself away from the vehicle only to deduce that my prize right calf was momentarily glued to the exhaust pipe of the bike. I don’t think you people can imagine how hot that bitch gets. That beautiful muscular ledge between the bottom of my calf muscle and the back of my shin now has a blemish the size of an orange.

It is a good thing that herbal medicines exist so readily. My colleague picked a leaf off a special plant, heated it in a fire for a few seconds and then squeezed its juices all over my burn. Shortly thereafter the pain ceased. Four hours later, it is drying up and the dead skin has come off. These people know things we just can’t master.

Moral of the story: Bed dismounts have very little influence on one’s day.

comforts of home December 10, 2006

I just want to say, for the record, that I really like toilet bowls and toilet paper, dry bathroom floors with tiles, running water, water you can drink from the taps, kitchens that have fridges and stoves and that are enclosed within the walls of home. I like sharing, but I really like to eat out of my own plate with utensils. I like not fried food and food that is not drenched in fried oil. I like couches. I like beds. I like garbage cans and garbage dumps for that matter. I like chickens before and after they are dead, but not really while they are in the process of dying. I like cozy rooms with carpets. I like light, electric and natural. I like dinners that don’t take 4 hours to prepare because you have to fan a fire that won’t quite do its job. I like shower nozzles that release water at the temperature you want it. I really like compartmentalized food. I love Africa, but I am definitely a creature of comfort at my core…and ever so thankful that I have grown up with all these luxuries.

Culture of reversibility December 9, 2006

I just solved my first SUDOKU puzzle ever! I never thought I’d have the patience or the wit to get to the end, but tonight, glory was mine! May I encourage all you sudoku aspirers to give the online version a shot if the hard copies have been your arch nemeses. There is just something so reversible about computer work that it will give you that extra jolt of confidence to try and err and try and succeed. In this era of computer technology, putting anything down on real paper with a real pen is just so damn frightening. Even pencils seem not to erase as they used to.

Contribution December 9, 2006

Most of us have jobs or go to school or do something that affects other people in one way or another. I had the chance to do something this week that made me very aware of the influence I’ve had on someone’s life. I think doctors must feel like this everyday, but in my profession, I don’t quite have the chance to see the fruits of my ninetofivers. Even when I am in the field, it is rare that I truly catch a glimpse of the effects of my work. This week I did and I am still moved beyond belief.

It was time to hire my fourth and last African coordinator, in Bamako this round. Our short-list consisted of 11 people who we interviewed. The guy we ended up hiring is this young fellow of about 28. He has been married for 3 years and has a little 2-year old girl. He decided to get married so young because here, a married man is generally considered more serious, more conscientious and, thus, more employable. He has been struggling to find work ever since. He has a Master’s level education and has dedicated his entire adult life to voluntary community service. He spearheaded a very important initiative to build a primary school in his local community. He works closely with this city counsellor and is a member if not the chair of a good handful of community associations. He works more than a regular 40-hour week and never gets a dime. This has been his reality for years.

You know, here, it is very uncommon for a family to allow a marriage between two people if the man is not employed and cannot financially support his family. Apparently, three years ago, he had to beg the marriage officials to let him marry his fiance.

Ever since, he has been looking for work of any kind. The unemployment rate is high here and jobs are very hard to come by. After we announced that he had been the lucky candidate he told me of the emotions he had felt and of the occurrences leading up to that announcement.

After having been invited to the interview, he decided to consult with one of his mentors. He had never been to a real job interview and had no idea what to expect. So this mentor of his sat down with him and simulated an interview for him. They ran through the spectrum of possible interview styles. He practised through role playing, writing down answers, anticipating questions and doing days of research. He showed up at the interview on Wednesday and was so evidently nervous. His forehead was sweating, his eyes were glassy; however, his underlying devotion to his country, and his kindness of spirit far outweighed the former.

We called him back the next day for a second round of practical testing. He told me later that when he saw that it was us calling he thought that he had gotten the job but then was shattered when he heard that he was one of two candidates being considered. He was convinced that he would never have a fighting chance with his lack of paid experience. But he came that day to the second round with a much calmer aura. He left the interview and went straight home to wait by the phone.

He lives in a large compoud with his wife and baby, his mom, random uncles and aunts and all his 6 younger siblings. Every one of them sat around the phone for the rest of the day. Nothing. 7 pm came and he left for the mosque to pray. His wife promised to hold the phone near in case we called. As soon as he walked in the door, the phone rang and all went silent. He saw our number, picked up and said hello. I told him that he was the best candidate and that we were very happy to offer him the job. Apparently he smiled with relief and all his family began to cheer. No one, especially him, could believe the news. He accepted with such humility.

After we hung up, his mom who is sick, apparently shook off the illness, got off the bed and danced with joy to celebrate her eldest son’s accomplishment. She said to him, “Was there a Malian on the selection committee?” He answered no. “That’s why you got the joy, you know?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know how this place works. If there had been a Malian on the committee, one of the other candidates would have found some way to bribe him while you would have been able to offer him nothing.”

They laughed, and so began their evening of celebration.

The next day, as he told me this story, his eyes welled up, and in his very humble way, he lowered his head and said, “Je suis vraiment content. Merci. Merci.”