New Year Sharades

“Mamatal, I think we are going to head back to the house.”

“Go back?”

“Yes,” I say, in slow, clear English, “my bus leaves early tomorrow and I need to get some sleep. We have had a wonderful evening though, a wonderful New Years.” I look at Melody, we feel awkward separating from our kind host, like it is probably even ruder in Malian culture than in American, but the fact is I have a long journey ahead of me and am beginning to get a cold. Mamatal, our host during our stay in Bamako, the capital of Mali, speaks to his friend in the passenger seat in Tamashek and we continue to drive from Party 1 to Party 2. Suddenly, we pass a taxi, the friend in the passenger seat jumps out and returns to our rear window, “He says it is 2,000 francs.” It is a high price but we get in and away we go.

It only takes us about 5 minutes to realize that we are without a key to the house. “Oh, shit, Melody. We’re going to have to wait outside for hours.” I grumble but it gets worse.

“Blake, we don’t have any money on us for the cab fare!”

“Wait, call Mamatal and see where… dude, you left your phone!”

I expel a series of curses that would curl the pope’s toes and sit stewing in frustration. This will not end well. For the next 20 minutes of the cab ride, we try to anticipate what will happen when our driver realizes he will not be paid. We can tell him to come back tomorrow? We can trade my scarf! Its cashmere! We can run really fast and escape payment!

Well, when we get down at the house, our driver is not in a giving mood for the sake of the New Year. In fact, he is livid and my French cannot adequately apologize beyond repeating “Je suis desolate” over and over again. His only answer to our offered solutions and pleading is to go to the police station and handle the situation. What? Police? NOOO! African police are generally pretty freaking corrupt and obnoxious. My dealings with them have been few and shirt and I’d like very much to keep it that way. Nonetheless, there are not other options and Mr. Taxi Man is insisting.

“Melody,” I turn to her on the drive, “we will laugh at this someday.” At that, we both erupt in some kind of disgusted laughter, at which the driver looks quizzically in the rear view mirror. Never again will I leave the house without an ounce of ‘insurance’ to get myself home. I should know better by now, gees.

At the police station, my limits of French are stretched but I get us by well enough. Melody doesn’t speak in French, and rather sucks when she tries but she does try very hard still and I am usually called upon to fill in the blanks. The chief on duty that night (well, morning at it was already 2:30 am) decides that the best course of action is to pay the driver the fare, keep Melody’s camera, the driver will return us to the house and we will return to make the payment and retrieve the camera. No, Melody will not leave her camera with these men just as I will not leave Melody with these men (whose first question to me, by the way, after the situation was figured out was, “Madam or mademoiselle?” Translation: are you married, baby, because I hear white girls are loose.”) At that, we make the tough resolution to wait at the grimy station with the creepy officers who keep asking me if I’m married and if I like African men.

While we sit outside amongst the benches with several other waiting civilians, a woman in front of us asks one of the officers that was handling our “problem” what happened. He explains in Bambara, she replies, he gets up and walks towards to the office and grabs the camera. I jump up and walk swiftly to him; that camera is not to be moved from my sight, mister. To my surprise, he hands me the camera. “Why? I mean… por quoi?”

In French, standing uncomfortably close he says, “The lady paid for you, go home.” Great, but we still don’t have money for a cab fare or keys to get in to retrieve that money. No worries, her boyfriend is going to give us a lift so we can wait on Mamatal’s doorstep like the little lost lambs that we are. I look at my watch, god save me, I have to catch a bus in 3 hours.

Shit happens when you leave home and you must leave room for the good shit as well as the bad.





This is Africa. The Africa I have loved and am pained to leave after over a year of enjoying it, wallowing in it, being loved every moment of my time in it. It is more than just hospitality, it is a deep sense of interconnectedness and respect that means that you always have someone watching your back, and often you have a multitude. It might seem like a simple thing, being escorted 30 minutes out of a stranger’s way so he could help me find my destination was one of the most remarkable instance of my time in Ghana. The man didn’t ask anything in return for our walk but conversation, not even my number, which many men request only after seeing my Caucasian skin.