The Never-ending Journey to Mali

Whoever came up with the expression “It’s a small world” is clearly not a Canadian who has traveled to Africa. It was quite the lengthy journey. Picture five of us Junior Fellows sleeping on the floor in the middle of a Charles de Gaule terminal in Paris. If you can’t do that, check out the actual picture. We must have miscalculated our nap, because we woke up 45 minutes before our flight to Bamako, the capital of Mali. At this point we still needed to find a banking machine to take out some euros for certain expenses in Mali, for instance extending our visas that are currently valid for 30 days only. Yikes! To access this machine we had to run around the airport, go through customs, find the machine, take out the money, go through customs again, go through security, and finally meet back up with Emily who was getting antsy. We must have been lucky despite all the line-ups, because we made it back on time for our flight.

“What would you like to drink? We have champagne, red or white wine…”, asked the steward. Hello, guilt trip! It is somewhat ironic that I was on my way to a developing country with the best intentions, and that I was still offered my peche mignon. I allowed myself one last taste of alcohol before four months of “drought”. “Could I please try some of your red wine?” Yum.

I slept for most of the way, but woke up in time to see the sun setting. Alex, staring in awe outside his window, called me over so that I could have a look at the scenery below. There were sand dunes as far as the eye could see, until the red sun met with the horizon far away. I couldn’t help but smile at the thought of these vast territories that have not yet been abused by entire cities of inconsiderate humans. The desert seems like such a peaceful place. I hope that I will have the opportunity to meet some Touaregs to find out more about this mystical place. From what I understand, Touaregs are the people who basically own the desert. They live a nomadic lifestyle and travel the desert on their camels. I could go on about things I have heard, but I will wait a while longer before I make the mistake of listing stereotypes that may not represent their reality whatsoever.

We finally arrived in Bamako, about 24 hours after leaving Toronto. My heart was pounding faster than that time George pulled a front flip. I stepped outside the plane and got a first taste of this 30-something degree heat I had been expecting. I took a deep breath and let myself be completely absorbed by this new atmosphere. There were so many people at the bottom of the steps, it crossed my mind that maybe our flight was filled with important people that I simply did not recognize. But I guess I will never know.

I went through customs with a shy smile as I tried out my first salutation in Bambara, the main dialect in Mali. I handed the man my passport with my right hand. I have been warned during pre-departure training that eating or passing anything with the right hand is extremely disrespectful. The left hand is reserved almost exclusively for going to the washroom. Toilet paper is overrated, inaccessible, or unnecessary perhaps? I will have to get back to you on that. But apparently all you need is what looks like a teapot of water and a good scrub with the left hand. Anywho, the man returned my passport with a smile and complimented me on my name. It was somewhat of an awkward interaction. It seems like he thought I knew more Bambara than I actually do. I smiled and said “N’Se”, which is, from what I understood during training, the equivalent of a smile and nod in Canada. I have the feeling I will be using this method a fair bit…

Surprise, surprise, all of our luggage made it to Bamako! There are tons of men fighting to carry our bags, and I cannot tell the difference between who works at the airport and who doesn’t. There are no uniforms to help us make the distinction. They were so insisting, and so was I. I can carry all my luggage on my own. I spent a few days just figuring out how to fit everything in my one backpack for this specific reason. With all this help I could have brought a few suitcases, after all! The hard part followed. They asked for a tip, and started telling us that they need to feed their family, and so on. They are obviously used to manipulating tourists, and quite frankly, the airport is the best place to do that, I’ll give them that much. The problem was that I had absolutely no idea of the money’s worth and did not know how much to give. Noemie and I looked at each other, completely puzzled. Then we heard Jean-Luc calling our names from the other side of the fence. Alex, the little messenger bird, brought a few Francs CFA that Jean-Luc gave him and paid our new friends to help us move on.