Well boys, my company closed a sale in Africa. Bamako, Mali to be precise. It is a landlocked country about the size of Texas. This is my second trip here and I thought I would share a few notes from my experiences and observations.
ARRIVAL
Our connecting flight from Paris landed in Bamako about 10 :00 PM. The prearranged hotel shuttle was nowhere to be seen. Zied, our interpreter (it is French speaking), phoned the hotel to inquire. The clerk rudely stated she had no record of our request. We were forced to employ the services of a local taxi. If you have been to Jamaica it is a similar chaos once you step out of the airport doors (without the weed salesmen that is). There were no fewer than 100 young men haggling for your business. We chose a guy at random who was dressed nice, yet his Mercedes was nearing death on blocks, or more accurately, rocks; a beautiful automobile back when Reagan was president. We bottomed out so hard a few times I thought the gas tank may jetsam or worse, explode.
You negotiate the fare prior to the trip. I think we agreed to 17,000 francs, a little less than fifty bucks. Another guy grabbed my suitcase and crammed it into the trunk. He holds his hand out so I gave him a dollar. He looks at me like, what the fuck? I said, ?Dude, you moved my suitcase ten feet.? He continued to grumble so I gave him a pack of Orbit. You don?t want to make any enemies in this town.
In early January this year a 25 year-old Tunisian terrorist was arrested for chucking a gas cylinder at the French embassy in Bamako. Two locals were injured. Al Qaeda is here but mainly huddled in the North. They say don?t go to Timbuktu or north of there if you like breathing. The French embassy is about ten holding penalties from our hotel.
It?s a 20 minute drive to the Hotel Libya. Yes, Hotel Libya. Apparently the insane Qadhafi looks to put his mark anywhere he can in Mali. A third bridge across the Niger is under construction and backed by Libyan funds. I guess they will call it the Qadhafi Bridge. We arrive at the hotel, get out of the car and the driver suddenly tries for 17,000 x 3 (per passenger). TIME! We cried. That wasn?t the deal. Much colorful language ensued between the driver and our interpreter and he ended up with 17,000 francs as we agreed.
MALARIA
The best preventative medicine for malaria these days is Malarone. You take one pill for several days before, during the trip and then continue for seven days after the trip. My body reacts strangely to certain medicines. I can take a Sudafed and thirty minutes later my shoulders tighten, muscles are twitching and my head feels all goofy like mushrooms.
My first trip to Africa (last December) was unpleasant as I came down with a fever and upper respiratory hack. I think the Malarone intensified these woes, so when I got back to the states I went and saw my physician and he told me without hesitation, ?This time, don?t take the Malarone. If you get malaria we?ll deal with it.?
Now this doctor is a young guy who went to Rice. (I once lost a significant wager backing Rice on a football game and thus have negative connotations with his office in the first place. I continue to use his practice despite his admission one day that his real passion is real estate. Here I pictured Dr. Summers pouring through medical journals late at night to ensure the latest in medical breakthroughs. Turns out he reads Real Estate Trader magazine instead, looking for the perfect fixer upper. I once had an allergic reaction to nicotine patches and suffered extreme swelling in all my extremities. I went to his office early the next morning. My hands were like boxing gloves. Shoes untied. ?Lower your trousers,? said he. I comply and he scoots back in horror, ?Your balls are like soup cans!? That is exactly what he said. Well why the fuck do you think I am here?). I digress.
I am skipping the Malarone this time around, gambling as usual. One of my colleagues got the Malaria over here, phase two. They say phase three is some bad shit and then there is cerebral malaria which can certainly do you in. The malaria carrying mosquitos are flying dusk to dawn so I don?t go out at night. There are no sports bars or taco bells anyways. The hotel is an island of westerners and Europeans and flight crews. There are plenty of hookers in the hotel but they don?t kiss on the mouth, according to my colleagues.
PEOPLE
The citizens of Mali are generally friendly and free of prejudice. I did encounter one local dude who spit at my feet and said, ?I am Taliban.? Other than him they are simple folks who don?t get too riled up about anything. A bunch of kneifls really: agreeable, yet thin on any visionary thoughts. A typical day may consist of moving a foot cart loaded with hay five miles to the marketplace, selling it and returning five miles with a ten-foot piece of iron pipe.
There are a million people in this city and it seems that 900,000 of them rely on ?retail sales? for existence. Many are mobile, selling candies or phone cards or sunglasses. The markets are lines of shacks with merchandise crammed into nasty, dirty exhibits. They remind me of forts you may build as a kid with plywood and corrugated rectangles nailed together hastily for security and protection from the sky during Mali?s rainy season.
The proprietors sit on broken down lawn chairs or wooden benches and nap and gaze and pray each day away. They breathe the dust and motorbike exhaust and build small fires everywhere to boil water. There are more sellers than buyers and some people may go weeks without ringing up a sale. Yet it doesn?t seem to get them down. As Popeye might say, it is what it is.
The merchandise is random: one shack has used microwaves, the next in line may be selling orange pop, then tires, then carrots, then boards. The only thing you can?t find is beer. Don?t shudder, it is extremely frightening I know. Mali is 90% Muslim thus everyone is horribly sober. One of the strangest observations: there are no old people. I asked our driver, Muhammad, what?s up with that? He said, it?s a hard life in Mali. Pollution and disease and extreme poverty. The people walk miles and miles each day. They use up their lives rapidly. The average lifespan is 47 years.
The moral of my story is this: never bet on a team named after food.
ARRIVAL
Our connecting flight from Paris landed in Bamako about 10 :00 PM. The prearranged hotel shuttle was nowhere to be seen. Zied, our interpreter (it is French speaking), phoned the hotel to inquire. The clerk rudely stated she had no record of our request. We were forced to employ the services of a local taxi. If you have been to Jamaica it is a similar chaos once you step out of the airport doors (without the weed salesmen that is). There were no fewer than 100 young men haggling for your business. We chose a guy at random who was dressed nice, yet his Mercedes was nearing death on blocks, or more accurately, rocks; a beautiful automobile back when Reagan was president. We bottomed out so hard a few times I thought the gas tank may jetsam or worse, explode.
You negotiate the fare prior to the trip. I think we agreed to 17,000 francs, a little less than fifty bucks. Another guy grabbed my suitcase and crammed it into the trunk. He holds his hand out so I gave him a dollar. He looks at me like, what the fuck? I said, ?Dude, you moved my suitcase ten feet.? He continued to grumble so I gave him a pack of Orbit. You don?t want to make any enemies in this town.
In early January this year a 25 year-old Tunisian terrorist was arrested for chucking a gas cylinder at the French embassy in Bamako. Two locals were injured. Al Qaeda is here but mainly huddled in the North. They say don?t go to Timbuktu or north of there if you like breathing. The French embassy is about ten holding penalties from our hotel.
It?s a 20 minute drive to the Hotel Libya. Yes, Hotel Libya. Apparently the insane Qadhafi looks to put his mark anywhere he can in Mali. A third bridge across the Niger is under construction and backed by Libyan funds. I guess they will call it the Qadhafi Bridge. We arrive at the hotel, get out of the car and the driver suddenly tries for 17,000 x 3 (per passenger). TIME! We cried. That wasn?t the deal. Much colorful language ensued between the driver and our interpreter and he ended up with 17,000 francs as we agreed.
MALARIA
The best preventative medicine for malaria these days is Malarone. You take one pill for several days before, during the trip and then continue for seven days after the trip. My body reacts strangely to certain medicines. I can take a Sudafed and thirty minutes later my shoulders tighten, muscles are twitching and my head feels all goofy like mushrooms.
My first trip to Africa (last December) was unpleasant as I came down with a fever and upper respiratory hack. I think the Malarone intensified these woes, so when I got back to the states I went and saw my physician and he told me without hesitation, ?This time, don?t take the Malarone. If you get malaria we?ll deal with it.?
Now this doctor is a young guy who went to Rice. (I once lost a significant wager backing Rice on a football game and thus have negative connotations with his office in the first place. I continue to use his practice despite his admission one day that his real passion is real estate. Here I pictured Dr. Summers pouring through medical journals late at night to ensure the latest in medical breakthroughs. Turns out he reads Real Estate Trader magazine instead, looking for the perfect fixer upper. I once had an allergic reaction to nicotine patches and suffered extreme swelling in all my extremities. I went to his office early the next morning. My hands were like boxing gloves. Shoes untied. ?Lower your trousers,? said he. I comply and he scoots back in horror, ?Your balls are like soup cans!? That is exactly what he said. Well why the fuck do you think I am here?). I digress.
I am skipping the Malarone this time around, gambling as usual. One of my colleagues got the Malaria over here, phase two. They say phase three is some bad shit and then there is cerebral malaria which can certainly do you in. The malaria carrying mosquitos are flying dusk to dawn so I don?t go out at night. There are no sports bars or taco bells anyways. The hotel is an island of westerners and Europeans and flight crews. There are plenty of hookers in the hotel but they don?t kiss on the mouth, according to my colleagues.
PEOPLE
The citizens of Mali are generally friendly and free of prejudice. I did encounter one local dude who spit at my feet and said, ?I am Taliban.? Other than him they are simple folks who don?t get too riled up about anything. A bunch of kneifls really: agreeable, yet thin on any visionary thoughts. A typical day may consist of moving a foot cart loaded with hay five miles to the marketplace, selling it and returning five miles with a ten-foot piece of iron pipe.
There are a million people in this city and it seems that 900,000 of them rely on ?retail sales? for existence. Many are mobile, selling candies or phone cards or sunglasses. The markets are lines of shacks with merchandise crammed into nasty, dirty exhibits. They remind me of forts you may build as a kid with plywood and corrugated rectangles nailed together hastily for security and protection from the sky during Mali?s rainy season.
The proprietors sit on broken down lawn chairs or wooden benches and nap and gaze and pray each day away. They breathe the dust and motorbike exhaust and build small fires everywhere to boil water. There are more sellers than buyers and some people may go weeks without ringing up a sale. Yet it doesn?t seem to get them down. As Popeye might say, it is what it is.
The merchandise is random: one shack has used microwaves, the next in line may be selling orange pop, then tires, then carrots, then boards. The only thing you can?t find is beer. Don?t shudder, it is extremely frightening I know. Mali is 90% Muslim thus everyone is horribly sober. One of the strangest observations: there are no old people. I asked our driver, Muhammad, what?s up with that? He said, it?s a hard life in Mali. Pollution and disease and extreme poverty. The people walk miles and miles each day. They use up their lives rapidly. The average lifespan is 47 years.
The moral of my story is this: never bet on a team named after food.
