"Trop de Vitamin C"

My coach picked me up at the house at 2:30PM for the big game yesterday. We were still going to have our football/soccer match despite it having rained all morning. The red, clay-like terrain had already soaked up all of the water; besides a few puddles it was not even muddy at the dirt fields after hours of torrential raining.

This particular "field" was right in the middle of town, close to the Hippodrome/horse racing track. Located right off of the main road (a.k.a. one of few paved roads), it was smaller than usual. We were going to have to play 9 v. 9 instead of 11 v. 11, which was particularly disappointing because that would mean if my coaches wanted to play the white girl, one more of my native Malian teammates would have to sit out. The girls didn’t seem to mind, and when we warmed up together you could tell they were just excited to be playing in such a public spot.

Public, off of a paved road -- yes; urban or modern -- no way. During warmups, the neighborhood donkey walked onto the field and gave a frustrated donkey howl for about 25 long, loud seconds. I’d never heard an ass give that kind of a groan before (besides my brother Ben) and it was perfectly timed. After the donkey let out all its hot air, we huddled up for our big team pep talk.

Coach told us to “concentrez-vous,” because unlike the other field we’d played on, there were two huge amps set up in the corner of the field with two men on microphones. Throughout the entire pre-game, they spit out “micro teste, un, deux, trois, micro teste” and were babbling in Bambara to try to get a big group out there. It was incredibly annoying, but together with our mid-city location, effective. More people were at this match than our first. It was good advice by coach to stay focused.

The ref blew the whistle, and starting as forward I rushed in the direction of the goal to set up camp. I think they continue to put me in the position of “marquée" because that’s where they think I'll do the least amount of damage. I can’t be blamed if someone scores in the back, and if I don’t make any big moves up front, no big deal! There are other, more-acclimated-to-the-dirt-field players working hard.

Even from the beginning, the chatter from the gigantic amplifiers was beyond distracting. It was like the two men with the microphones were giving the play-by-play for a radio station, but instead of being volume-controlled by households or car radios, it was on full-blast in our tiny field for our not so tiny crowd. One of the girls on the other team got so frustrated she yelled at them mid-play to turn it down, making the hand motion to lower the volume after both announcers yelped at the top of their lungs when our team almost scored.

I wasn’t being very productive, and any time I tried to make any kind of a run downfield to try to get involved, the girls would yell at me to just stay up top. At one point, I tried to steal the ball away from one of the other team's defenders, but accidentally knocked this girl flat onto the ground. I fumbled into her with such uncontrollable force that I think she must've rolled over three times in the dirt like one of the World Cup footballers -- and the whistle blew for the foul. Whoops!

As I was helping her up, I could hear on the amp, “Cette tubabou a pris trop de vitamin C, mesdames et messieurs!” “This white girl has taken too much vitamin C, ladies and gentlemen!” I almost let the girl fall again from laughing so hard!

But really, none of our team was doing much except for #7, yet ANOTHER Fatoumata, Fatime (different from my main pal on the team, Fatu, and dress-maker friend, Fatime). I found out during the game from the microphone guys -- at least they’re good for something! -- that she plays for the women’s national team of Mali.

At that point, it hit me: I’m actually playing on a women's professional soccer team. How did that happen?!

Besides getting on her about her national team status, the announcers kept yelling “Attention, mes amis, cette #7...elle est dangereuse!” They went on and on about how dangerous she was every time she touched the ball. In one particular display of skill and grace, she headed the ball to her chest, and then used her chest to bring the ball down to her knee, then knocked the ball up with her knee, and trapped in with her left foot to her right foot, and took a shot. Five beautiful touches in perfect harmony. While she didn't score, she shut those microphone guys up for a few seconds of admiration until they, and everyone, started yelling and cheering for her.

The opposing team scored on us in a moment of miscommunication, 0-1, and it was just about the end of the first half. I was keeled over with my hands on my knees from the heat and (however little) exertion, but tried to pull some energy together when the ball was punted in my direction up top. Fatime, being everywhere all at once, ran right in front of the goal where the ball was coming. With her back to the goalie, she trapped it with her stomach.

As usual, as directed by my teammates, I was just standing in front of the goal waiting for something to come my way. The ball bounced up into the air in my direction, where I was facing Fatime, and I kicked it towards the back of the net....BUUUUUUUT!!! “Tubabou! Elle a marqué! La tubabou a marqué un but!” That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, the white girl just did that; she just scored a goal.

Vitamin C really pays off.

Talk about right place, right time. And then thank God the ref blew the whistle for half-time; I didn't know how much longer my new adrenaline high could hold me. After “félicitations” from the coaches on the sideline, I was given the wonderful news that I’d be subbing out the second half.

Being benched gave me the chance to really listen to what these weird guys on the mics were saying. Although mostly in Bambara, of which I know greetings only, I did hear a few pieces of complete babble nonsense. They went off on a rant about Nicholas Sarkozy, the president of France, and for whatever reason touched on “aubergines"/eggplant, during our professional women's soccer game. Intermittently they stuck to their real-time game chatter, and then really started mixing it up.

A DJ had shown up, and when he attached his computer to the amps the Windows welcome noise blasted. In their special corner, the DJ and the mic guys put on a French rap song. When one of the girls missed a shot, an announcer broke out into a free-style along with the beat: “Elle a voulu marqué, mais elle a echouée” which, in French, rhymes to say “She wanted to score, but she failed.” Harsh, but hilarious.

The second half came and went and no one else ended up scoring. Three girls were chosen from our team for the head-to-head PKs that were to follow. Coach gave us a pep talk in Bambara, which again, everyone knows I do not understand. For some reason, she switched into French to ask who wanted to volunteer if we needed more penalty kickers?

I’m not sure if that was aimed at me, being stated in French, but I definitely did not step up to the plate. I was planning to end on a high note, my first and what could be last reigning moment as a professional athlete. I wasn’t going to chance my glory on a PK, where who knows what could go wrong (Ghanian Gyan moment perhaps?) -- giving those ruthless announcers who knows what kind of material.

Our amazing keeper ended up blocking two of their three shots, and all our girls banked theirs. The crowd flooded the field to give all the players high fives, and to try to sneak into the group picture of both teams. The event ended with all in high spirits, including those who the announcers attacked in jest. Even my guilt from knocking the one girl over disappeared when she asked to take a post-game picture with the tubabou.

Tea-Brewing Guards

Making and drinking tea in Bamako says a lot about Malian culture and patience. While Lipton-brand tea bags are commonplace around our office, it's loose Chinese tea leaves that are most often brewed in a small metal tea-pot over a coal fire. All around the city, groups of men are hunched in a circle around the coals, adding unequal parts leaves to water into the pot, 3:1 (by choice, not miscalculation!). The tea-makers will give the liquid a few breaks from the coal heat, standing up to pour the tea from a height into two shot-glass sized drinking vessels, then will sit back down to pour the glasses back into the pot. It’s a repeated, drawn-out process that occurs over what seems like hours; liquid is continuously steadied into the shot glasses and poured back in the pot.

Finally ready to drink, the first round of tea shots is strong and bitter: the Malian 5-hour Energy Shot.

The Malian tea pot: not much room for water with all those leaves!

After the jolting first batch is finished, more water is added for the second. The pouring and repouring of shot glasses continues for another drawn out period of time. While not as strong, this second batch still has a kick to it.

Water is then added for a third round of tea shots, which are given just as much time and attention. With sugar and now worn-out, wimpy leaves, you get a much sweeter, more satisfying result. It's like the jello shot to chase a couple rounds of whiskey.

Some rainy afternoons at work when I’m struggling to stay awake, I go outside and ask for a three-shot trifecta from the Care Mali "gardiens"/security guards, sitting around their own little coal fire at the front gate. Every time I get out there, they always have to ask, “Sali, tu vraiment veux prendre le thé du Mali? Pas Lipton?”/”Sali, you really want to take the Malian tea? Not Lipton?” And while I do prefer the later, sweeter shots, you gotta sign up for the whole package. "Bien sûr, je vais prendre le thé Malien!"

Tea shot glasses hanging out together, recuperating after a few rough hours together.

With tea pot + sugar in plastic bag.

Not a true Malian, and needing the hours it would take to make the tea to focus on my work, one of the guards will bring me one shot after the other throughout the afternoon.

“Gardien” is one of the top-ranking professions around Mali’s capital city. It’s up there with “le taxi-man” and the young men who sell “Orange” (the AT&T of Mali) phone credit. The Orange vendors get to wear spiffy neon vests and walk up and down the streets mid-traffic selling instant phone credit cards, comparable to the church collectors with fanny packs coming up to your car window on S. Claiborne in New Orleans. When it's not rush hour, these vested guys are sitting around making tea, too.

The guard(ien) uniform isn't as exciting: an all-brown full body suit, not unlike that of the UPS man. It has got to be miserable in this West African heat. That’s probably one of the reasons they're making tea all day long. Drinking hot tea helps cool you off by increasing the temperature of your innards relative to your brown, uniform-trapped outards.

Another reason the gardiens spend hours brewing green tea until it becomes the color of their uniforms? There’s not much to guard against. The southern half of this 90% Muslim country does not have a lot of crime. The strong family and neighborhood ties stigmatize any acts of crime, and the worst are punishable by the ultimate penalty: community exclusion or expulsion. The hardest I’ve seen a guard work is having to fuss at young kids playing football/soccer in the street when their ball gets too close to a nearby parked moto.

Thursday was the first day of the month of fasting called “Careme” here in Islamic West Africa, “Ramadan” everywhere else. A different cultural process of sorts I get to witness.

In theory, the practice is done to remind Muslims of what the poor must go through every day. Each day, they are supposed to feel the hunger pains of not being able to afford food to eat. It is a sort of grounding period designed to make individuals appreciate what they have.

In practice, it has become more of a “fête," an exciting festival. Entire families wake up at the pre-daybreak hour of 4AM to gorge themselves with a gigantic breakfast, and after a full day of no food, no drink, and even no chewing gum to help keep their minds off of the fact that they're famished, the whole family gets together again for another feast that has been prepared throughout the day.

The two eating periods include mass amounts of meat, mostly “mouton”/goat, and lots and lots of sugar. Yesterday, one of my co-workers picked up a 50-kg sack of sugar for $50. It is used to sweeten the dates that the prophet Mohamed once ate, and is added into the "boullee," a porridge-like mixture drunk at both meals. The white color of the sugary boullee signifies the purity of the Careme.

The amount of prayer to Allah is amped up, performed five times a day by even the less devout members who would normally spend more time brewing tea than praying. So while the message of starving yourself to become more minimalist has become starving yourself to have fun gorging at odd hours with your family, the prayer regime has at least remained stringent.

My "drinking" buddies les gardiens are now in full fasting mode. They’ve officially traded their brown tea for white boullee. Despite the 4AM and 7PM feasting, it can’t be a good month for them, and certainly not for me; yesterday I was struggling to keep my eyelids open without my 5-hour Energy Shot series. They'll be doing all their waiting around in a guard-like fashion with none of the chatty brewing, and I’ll only have Lipton tea bags to get me through the day.

It's time for all of us to say our prayers.

Ants trump Maggi

En route to work today, I finally counted how many times I saw the phrase "Avec Maggi, CHAQUE Femme est une Etoile"/"With Maggi, EVERY Woman's a Star." Seven times I saw this catchy line: on small billboards, on the sides of buildings, stamped on canopies at corner shops, even on the back of motorized carts.

photo cred to camettoineduboutdumonde.toinegraphiste.fr

Now I don't normally consider myself a feminist, but this particular message really irks me. Maggi is, for all intents and purposes, a bouillon cube.

More than that, it's a bouillon cube owned by the Nestle Company! They have some serious experience in advertisment (I would know, Homer Simpson got me every time with those old Butterfinger commercials), and are more than aware of the rigid gender roles they are helping to reinforce in Mali: women staying at home to cook...and clean, and make babies. This would be fine by me if other professional options were equally available to women of all classes here -- but they're not.

To pour chicken flavored salt into the open wound, at a recent national nutrition forum held here in Bamako, there were many complaints from NGO representatives that the cube's sodium content was too high. Research was suggesting that these Maggi cubes were contributing to the hypertension and obesity issues developing in West Africa.

When then asked to describe the ingredients, the Nestle rep said she was not at liberty to give away their "trade" secrets. Isn't that illegal in the states?

Maybe I'm a jaded Westerner viewing this Western company's continued abuse of a fragile developing country, but maybe not. My feelings haven't stopped me from ingesting the stuff -- and liking it! At most restaurants where I've eaten, I've seen that now all too familiar sexist phrase along the walls, and yet still managed to enjoy a Maggi-spiced "sauce de feuilles"/"leaf sauce" or "sauce d'arrachides"/"peanut sauce" (OK, OK so I'm not the best vegetarian, eating chicken-based spices and all). It's like MSG at your favorite Chinese restaurants; you know what you're getting into without knowing what you're getting...which really can be said for a lot I've eaten around here.

At the tailor's house, getting yet another Malian outfit made, I was offered "une chenille frite," a deep-fried caterpillar. Without giving myself too much time to think about it, I popped it into my mouth in a gesture to savor every cultural experience I could. This woman had a huge pan filled with the black creatures, so I figured they had to be somewhat tasty. I was wrong; not much to savor there.

photo cred to blog.hotelclub.com

I also eat a lot of "fourmis" daily: ants. Not by any fault of Claudia (my boss whose house I'm living in), her family, or her cooking or cleaning staff, but merely as a function of the rain and the house structure, her kitchen is an ant party. They march in lines along the walls, climb down the sides of the refrigerator, and swarm at any morsels or tiniest drops of juice splattered on the countertop. They sneak in through the cracks of the door and windows, and no amount of cleaning or antspray seems to keep them out.

One day I didn't close the bag within the cereal box tightly enough. The next day I saw a trail of my friends the ants filing into a corner of the cardboard. I'm sure I've been eating the results of that invasion regularly for breakfast.

Another time, I left my CLOSED homemade "beurre d'arachide"/peanut butter jar on the counter. The tiny things were able to squeeze through the edges, and their poor, trapped bodies were found on the surface of this precious commodity that had been given to me by a friend. No use in letting it go to waste -- I just mixed the ants in and consumed.

I've grown accustomed to a daily bug intake, even without knowing what kind of nutritional component they add or detract from my life. Similarly, no one really knows the nutritional makeup of Maggi.

However, I'd rather not get as complacent with my Maggi cube consumption. Ants don't know what they're doing to women like me; Nestle does.

Le Taxi-man

As a native English speaker, I find it interesting to hear which of our English words are adopted to become a part of other languages (besides "Coke" and "fries," that is). At work, I’ve found that “planning familiale” is used just as often as the French version "planification familial." In everyday interactions, “sorry” is used interchangeably with “desolé” and “excusez-moi.” “Camera-man” is used for photographers or videographers, and along that same line there is “le taxi-man.”

I am presently living in the Badalabougou neighborhood, and commute at least 30 minutes to the Care Mali offices which are located in the Korofina Nord quarter. The long commute is merely a function of "embouteillage," or "traffic," and provides me with at least a full hour of time with mon ami, le taxi-man.

Many days I’ll spend looking out of the window of the taxi moto-watching, to see what the mini-motorcycles are carrying from day to day. Women with child wrapped onto their backs on a moto is commonplace; every morning I see at least one moto with a young man holding a live goat or numerous chickens; couples are able to squish two or three children between them on the single moto seat. One afternoon I saw a guy with a 10 foot tall stack of new lawn chairs balanced on the back of his moto. When I gave him the thumbs up as he turned my way to switch lanes, he thought nothing of it to take his hand off of the handle bars and wave. There's a lot to see riding along with le taxi-man.

Video of morning ride with le taxi-man through the backroads:

Sorry, vids aren't sent out via email. You'll have to visit lizinmali.blogspot.com to check em out.

Other days, like today, I’ll start up a conversation with le taxi-man. The opener is easy: “i ka kene?” which means “how are you” in Bambara, the local language that is used more often than French. After he replies “touro si teh,” which means "no problem(s)," it gets complicated.

In Bambara you don’t only ask how the individual is doing, you ask how the entire family is doing, person by person.

“I somogo?” And how is your family? “Touro si teh.”

“I ba ka kene wah?” Your mother? “Touro si teh”

“I fa ka kene wah?” Your father? “Touro si teh.”

“I koromoso ka kene?” Your older sister? “I koroke ka kene?” Older brother?

“I dogomuso ka kene?” Younger sister? “I denw ka kene?” And your children?

“Touro si teh.”

Le taxi-man usually speaks small small English, or petit petit French, and is always amused when Tubab can speak doni doni Bambara.

The farewells are less demanding than the greetings: “kan bay” for “goodbye,” and “Allah akah bee diayla” for “have a good day.”

The direct translation for “Allah akah bee diayla” is actually “may God give you a good day.” In response, le taxi-man will surely say, “Insha’Allah," pronounced "Inshallah” which is Arabic for “God willing.” The Muslim-dominated Bambara culture adopts not only English and French words and phrases, but Arabic as well; yet I can't imagine any of the Bambara exchanges being adopted into English, French, or Arabic.

I've learned the complete and extended version of the Bambara salutations from le taxi-man on my daily rides. While there have technically been many teachers and many taxi rides, "le taxi-man" has been the universal driving force (literally) of my Bambara immersion.

And because of the informal Bambara language lessons given to me by le taxi-man, I usually forfeit over the extra 500 fCFA, or $1, that I talked him out of at the beginning of the ride. Touro si teh.

Asking Questions

Saturday, July 31st, was the annual celebration of “La Journée Panafricaine des Femmes pour L’Afrique Ouest,” the “Panafrican Women’s Day for West Africa.” Madame le Président, or Mali’s first lady, was expected at the Palais du Congrès that morning to support the cause. Madame Touré, the secretary at the Keneya Ciwara office, offered to pick me up at 7:00AM to get a good spot in the auditorium where our famed first lady would speak at 9:00.

Me and Madame Touré

Every single woman, myself included, was wearing an outfit made out of the exact same material: a blue cotton that had “La Journée Panafricane des Femmes” stamped all over it. Malians don’t get t-shirts made for special occasions. Instead, they get material dyed with the emblem or message they want circulated.

Trying to sneak into the picture with unknown woman (left), Oule (center, who makes me baobab juice) and Assitan (president of the women's groups in San, Mali)

We frequently get material dyed with malaria messages printed on it for our “Voices for a Malaria-Free Future” campaigns. Politicians will use the same approach at election times, and give out material with their name and face stamped all over. Claudia, my boss, recently gave me a few yards of “Obama” material. There’s still a lot of Obama hype out here.

There were 2 piece outfits, dresses, and head wraps all in this blue material, with every kind of detailed finish you can imagine. The trick is to try to get the most fashionable outfit made. The auditorium was filled to the brim with women in their new blue “robes" and "jupes”/dresses and skirts, checking out other women's dresses and skirts, already making plans for the next outfit for the next event. It got so packed that many women had to sit in the aisles and stand up in the back. We were a blue sea of estrogen.

Rolling deep with my crew after the event.

At the ceremony, each of the head honchos of Mali’s women’s groups gave speeches. In-between these speeches, a traditional Malian band played live music. There was even music during speeches, performed by individual women in the crowd who felt so moved by what their peers were saying that they’d stand up and belt out a few measures of “thanks” to their own tunes.

One woman in particular, who was sitting in the seat directly in front of me, was really feeling her inner Femme Panafricaine and got up to interject her vocals during almost every speech. When they were handing out awards for the most pro-active women and women’s groups, she stood up and sang a long segment about how we should not forget the individuals who fought for Malian women’s rights in the past, but who are now dead. They too should be honored with awards, if not only with her song of praise. Almost touching.

Apparently this same singer’s friend, who happened not to be at the ceremony, was then announced as an award recipient. Our singer quickly got on her cell phone to call the friend, and was talking so very loudly in congrats that she interrupted the entire procession of awards and was asked to “shush” a number of times. Post phone dialogue, she stood up once more to sing about how her friend expressed her thanks to everyone for the award and wished she could be there and congratulations to all of the other winners and...not very touching. Too bad there was not an award for most inopportune singer or most annoying crowd participant.

It finally came time for Madame le Président’s speech. Completely distracted by her pink accents, her outfit being the most flamboyant of the entire crowd, I only caught the final message of her speech. Mali, and thus the women of Mali, have been independent for fifty years now (Mali's been celebrating its 50th anniversary all 2010). In the next fifty years, women must continue to ask themselves the important question of what they can do next to ensure the health and safety of their African sisters.

Waking up at 6:30AM on a Saturday for the event took a lot out of me, so the rest of the Journée Panafricane des Femmes was spent lazing around the house with another femme, Melanie. She is the live-in nanny to Claudia’s two boys, and like me is a foreigner to Mali -- she hails from Côte d’Ivoire.

Girl time at the house

We spent a few hours watching horrible French comedies on T.V., aired in worse quality than Louisiana Public Broadcasting, then got to talking. We’ve spent the last two weeks together, alone in Claudia’s house while her family is on vacation, but I had yet to really get to know her. As is the girl way, I started with what seemed like a perfect, and easy, first topic of conversation: boys.

At 22 years old, Melanie has a 36 year old boyfriend in Abdijian, Côte d’Ivoire, whom she cannot marry because she does not have enough money or education. Not so easy after all. She’s been working with Claudia’s family for the past year to save up, and when the family goes on vacation during the summer, Melanie has been taking computer classes. With time, she’s hoping to accrue enough savings and class credits that her boyfriend’s parents will approve their marriage.

When I asked her if her parents could afford to support her marriage, wondering if she and her potential husband could just pay her parents back with time, she explained that her father had passed away. Being already so deep in her history, I asked why.

She continued: he did not just pass away. During the civil war in Côte d’Ivoire, her father was murdered in front of she, her mother, sister, and brother. After the deed, the rebel fighters said that if they saw any of them crying, the family too would be stabbed and killed.

Melanie’s father was murdered in front of her eyes, and she was not allowed to react.

Now here she is years later, without a father, unable to marry the man she loves because of consequence. She’s living the life of a foreigner, away from her remaining family members and support system, to earn money in a job where she is required to care for, nurture, and help raise two boys who are not her own.

She is only able to visit her proper family at Christmas, and is unable to call them often because of the costs. I offered for her to use my Skype account to call home, and she got out her cell phone to look up a number.

When she handed me her phone, I saw that the name of the person she was calling was saved in her contacts as “ma jumelle”/”my twin.” Not only is she away from her family, she is a country away from her twin! They started talking and giggling on the phone, and a few minutes later she said bye to “Melanie.” Twins with the same name, at that!

I finally asked Melanie if Claudia, who she works for, knew anything about her past or her family history. Claudia is the ultimate mother figure, always offering to take care of everyone around her, and loves giving advice and guidance. I knew if anyone could counsel Melanie through her tough times away from home and in dealing with her present situation with her boyfriend, it would be Claudia.

Apparently she hadn’t shared the information with anyone in Mali; no one had yet to ask.

Melanie keeps to herself, and despite her struggles, is a generally content person. I can see how it would be easy to let her be, and not inquire about who or how she really is, as I had the past two weeks.

Madame le President’s message was to ask ourselves the question of how we can ensure the health and safety of our African sisters. And yet what I've learned on this Panafricain Day of Women is the importance of asking this same vital question to our sisters themselves. The simple act of asking questions can help keep these women feeling healthy, safe, and happy.

Melanie

Fatoumata(s)

There are a lotta “-ata”s here in Mali. Salimata, which is my given Malian name; Alminata, my football/soccer coach’s name; Halimata; Aissata; and in a category of its own is Fatoumata, the #1 most popular name I’ve come across. The secretary at my office has a daughter named Fatoumata. The captain of our soccer team is 28-year old Fatoumata. In my data collection for the women’s groups I can’t tell you how many times I’ve entered the name Fatoumata into an Excel spreadsheet. Then there are the Fatoumatas I meet everyday on the street.

A few days ago, I was walking on one such Malian street looking for bananas. After nearly two months away from home, I was needing some American flavor in my life and had big plans for making my friend Tori’s world famous banana bread. I asked our guard outside the gate if he knew where to find them, and was pointed in one direction. Minutes later and still “sans bananes”/”without bananas,” I asked the guard at the neighboring Senegalese Embassy if he knew where to find a banana stand; he pointed me in another direction. Still no luck. I next asked the guard at the “Palais de la Culture”...

There are a lotta guards in my up-scale neighborhood. Not a lotta bananas, apparently. It was getting close to evening, and it seemed as though the banana vendors were disappearing with the sunlight.

Asking the guards wasn’t giving me results, so I asked one of the female soft drink vendors who was carrying an ice chest on her head. She pulled down the ice chest and suggested I buy one of the local D’jino colas, in flavors like “Pamplemousse”/grapefruit and “Ananas”/pineapple. It was hard to turn this insistent girl down, but I declined, having bananas and not ananas on the brain.

She pointed me in a new direction even deeper into the neighborhood. Great. Thankfully she offered to walk me there. She said it was she and her friend who sold the bananas down the way and was there anything else she could help me buy?

On the way, she introduced herself: Fatoumata.

We found the precious bananas in holy territory: right next to the neighborhood mosque, which booms loud prayer chants every four hours from its outward projecting megaphones (like most mosques found in every neighborhood here). I stuffed my backpack with the fruit, and started heading towards Fatoumata’s home. She had invited me over, wanting to show me the “teinture”/cloth dying she, her mother, and sister did for a living. This 19-year old girl was a serious saleswoman.

We got to her home where there was an army of children crowding around Fatoumata’s mother, who was breastfeeding her youngest, and ninth, child. Fatoumata’s 17-year old sister was carrying her own 40-day old child wrapped to her back, and Fatoumata’s 3-year old son came running up to her. I thought the whole idea of having children at the same time as your mom was only a reality in the movie “Father of the Bride,” but it is very much a reality here in Mali!

Saleswoman Fatoumata convinced me to purchase one of their beautifully dyed “basins,” also called a “boubou.” A “basin” (pronounced “bay-zeinh”) is a large, formless dress that covers the entirety of your body like a giant Snuggie, but in a cool material rather than the hot felt shown in infomercials. I told them what colors I wanted and in what style, and after measuring me, Fatoumata walked me home. She’d bring the basin to the house when it was finished.

The finished product! Pictured with Fatoumata

My old friend Fatoumata came to the house a few days later with two of her sisters, equalling one third of her family’s brood. She showed me the colorful cloth they had dyed for the “tubabou’s” boubou. She unfolded the red and blue pattern, and I felt bad not being able to offer them the banana bread that I had since devoured. Instead, I offered the girls “jus de bissap”/bissap juice. Fatoumata nodded that she’d like a glass, but added: “mais tu sais ma mère est vendeuse de bissap avec gingembre?”/”but did you know my mother sells bissap juice with ginger?”

Fatoumata sells a lotta stuff.