Soccer Dreams from Bamako

Way back in June, I received a packing list from my Mali program director. Somewhere between “mosquito netting” and “toilet paper,” I read “small gifts for children.” I had no idea what exactly a Malian child would want or need and so I posed the question back to my director.

“Soccer equipment,” Michelle replied without hesitation, “Anything, new or used: shoes, socks, shin guards, jerseys, balls, etc.”

I sent out a quick e-mail to my hometown soccer association and was amazed with the response. A large plastic bin was set outside our front door for collection and within a couple weeks, enough gear had been donated to fill a large suitcase and three boxes. The latter would be sent via Fed-Ex and arrive at some undetermined time.

I’m not sure if I can fully stress how soccer, or le football, is engrained into Malian society. It is so omnipresent that after a while, the sounds of soccer matches becomes background neighborhood noise…like chickens squawking and imams calling for prayer from the local mosques. Now that I’m suddenly thrust back into American life, I’m realizing how much I miss it.


Soccer fields are everywhere in Mali, though not in the formal delineated versions that we are used to here in the US. Any grass that once existed either wilted under the harsh sun or got eaten by the herds of roaming goats. A soccer net would consist of two vertical poles and sidelines were invisible to my eyes but inherently known to the players. Equipment was minimal and it was more common than not to see players running around on the uneven pebbly ground with bare feet. Anything could be converted into a soccer field—side alleys, school yards, farm fields—because only the basics were needed, players and a ball. There’s something very special about watching a late-afternoon pick-up game when the dust gets stirred up by running feet and is illuminated by the setting sun.


When I arrived at my host family in Guarantiguibougou, a southern Bamako district, I discovered that my two Malian brothers, Ton Ton (8) and Chiek (10) were playing soccer with a deflated basketball. It did nothing to diminish their enthusiasm and knack for mischief (hitting parent’s cars is apparently culturally universal). But imagine their excitement when I unpacked a real soccer ball and various articles of gear. Our courtyard became the new center for neighborhood soccer games and for the next few days, all I heard were the sounds of bouncing balls and running feet.



When it got too dark to play soccer, everyone gathered around a small TV in the family courtyards to watch any of the international soccer cups being broadcast. All the men in the neighborhood could be found outside their houses, thirty people seated in low chairs and stools surrounding a 12” TV that cast its blue light across their faces. You could always tell when the Malian soccer team scored because the neighborhood would start cheering and cars would honk their horns. And this isn’t even for any major final competition; this was every game. And if we ever lost, well, let’s just say it’s expected to find tear gas at the ensuing riots.

Even when we were backpacking in Dogon, perhaps one of the most remote places I’ve ever been, we would watch soccer matches on TV’s connected to car batteries that had been charged by solar panels all day. The screens were usually black and white and fuzzy and I could never determine who was actually playing. We wondered if these European sports stars knew their fans were watching from tiny villages near the Saharan desert.

Anytime we traveled to the cyber-café, market, or downtown Bamako, we would pass a large dusty red soccer field. During the afternoon, it was rare to find any players simply because it was too hot. As soon as the sun began its descent and school/work got out, the field became alive with numerous teams competing on any of the makeshift fields. Weekends brought more official competitions between neighborhood teams and I once sat in on one where a marching band, circa-colonial France 1900, and a traditional dance troupe opened the event. Various mayors and government officials were introduced and we sat in the row behind them because, as foreigners, we were always distinguished guests.


So I arrived in Mali with a piece of luggage full of soccer equipment, as did my classmates India and Jake. Rather than just distribute the gear immediately to our neighborhood kids—oh the chaos that would have ensued!—we decided to wait a bit to get a feel for what would be culturally appropriate. And of course, we wanted to wait for the three Fed-Ex boxes.

After a couple of weeks, we met Ma Coulibaly, the matriarch of our Malian in-laws. The Coulibaly clan, as we liked to call them, lived not far from our house in Djoumanzana and is quite possibly, one of the nicest families I’ve ever met. The Malian society is structured around the family unit and it’s common to see four generations living under one large roof. No one goes hungry because meals are prepared en masse and shared amongst the family members. Ma Coulibaly is the type of woman that I want my kids to live with from age 4-8, someone who can lay down the law with the strictest kind of love possible. Plus, she speaks beautiful French. Anyway, she heads up one of the local woman’s association and is well connected within the government. She volunteered to organize some sort-of ceremony for the Djoumanzana soccer team to receive our gear, something official and fair. We decided to hold off until the last boxes arrived.

Fast forward to the last week in Mali and the boxes still haven’t arrived. A quick lesson in the Mali postal service; it doesn’t exist. I never saw a single mailman or mailbox. I found one post office in Bamako and it’s a cavernous building with sleepy clerks that closes from 12ish to 3ish each afternoon. I did receive a couple letters during my semester. They always appeared randomly, some boy dropping them off at our front door, passed through who knows how many hands. The postmark was always from a month earlier. So obviously, I held little hope for these last boxes. My professor was wise when she brought 18 extra pieces of luggage on her Air France flight; sure it was a bit more expensive, but at least it was guaranteed to arrive with you.

With just a few days until our plane departed, we decided to pass out the soccer gear that we had brought with us, still a significant amount. We hid everything in Jake’s huge duffel bag and carried it (and our favorite neighbor girl) to the Coulibaly house. Ma received us warmly and we went around to the various family members, greeting them with “I ni wu la, i ka kene.” Because very few things are actually planned in Mali, we spent a half hour playing with the children as Ma and her sisters finished preparing dinner. The local soccer team was “called” (a Coulibaly child was sent to fetch them) and we inflated balls while we waited. (If these pictures appear blurry, it’s because I passed on the camera to a six year-old). I don’t know if the soccer players knew the reasons why they were being called, but I’m sure rumor of these foreigners and their mystery bag had spread quickly through the neighborhood. Under the watchful eye of Ma Coulibaly, they approached our piles of shoes, jerseys, gloves, balls, and shin guards (something they have probably never used before). I smiled to myself as I saw little boys hold up green Grosse Pointe soccer uniforms that were too large for their bodies; did they know where Grosse Pointe was? Did it even matter?








I’m not sure we’ll ever know the true impacts of these donations. These children live and breathe soccer and dream of one day playing in Europe. From what we’ve seen, the talent is there, but a barefoot player with a deflated basketball just has a much more difficult chance than a fully outfitted one. So perhaps the cleats that we passed out brought one boy a step closer to that dream. I’ll never really know. But just the possibility of that happening is enough for me.

Update: The week that I returned home, my mom received box “1 of 3,” returned from Mali. Maybe the other two have somehow made their way to our house in Djoumanzana. Or maybe they’ll arrive next week in Grosse Pointe. (If they do, we’ll pass them along to next year’s students.) Three months ago, that may have frustrated me, but now I just sigh nostalgically and think, That’s Mali…

THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO DONATED!!

Home

It's chilly in our living room where I write. I just started a fire, but a chill draft still manages to creep in through the chimney. Surprisingly, I'm loving being cold. Walking around with a numb nose and toes, boiling water a for a cup of (real!) coffee, wearing jeans and sweaters and a scarf outside...it's not as jarring as one would think, in fact, it's refreshing.

The whole re-entry back to life in the states has been easy, maybe too easy. From what I've been told from other students, the longing for life abroad doesn't hit until a few months later, when you're swamped with homework and the responsibilities of your "old" life. Except, I can never have that "old" life again, because my perception on the world has changed so much. I can't articulate that change right now, and may never, but I know it's there.

This may be the last blog entry for a while as I need to take a break and put some time in other projects. Thank you all who have read my words (I've learned since returning home that there are more of you out there than I imagined). And thank you for all your thoughts and encouragement. This experience would have been difficult without you all.

Enjoy the holidays!

Blue skies and happy travels...

Ah, Paris.

This place is amazing... and cold!

Last thoughts?

I've only got 20 minutes left at this internet cafe and I'm trying to figure out how to explain what's going through my mind right now. My God, I'm leaving on Sunday! Sometimes, when there's a "cool" breeze and I'm watching the sunset with my classmates on the roof, my chest goes tight with nostalgia. But then, I could be walking down the street and getting sweaty and dirty and smelling the open sewers and I cannot wait for the comforts of home. Regardless of my emotions, one thing remains certain; time here is rapidly passing by and I’ll be on the plane in just another instant. It’s strange leaving because I do not know when I’ll be back and it will certainly never be the same again. Being in Paris by myself will be good for me. I’ll be able to explore art museums and enjoy really good restaurants and spend hours at a café, writing and processing these past few months. Actually, Erica and Kunal will be there as well and we can meet up and have our reverse-culture shock together. Ah life, always an adventure and I feel so fortunate for the opportunities I’ve had so far. Thanks everyone out there who have helped make this all possible!

A Patterned Travel Narrative

Wooo! After hours and hours of meticulous drawing, I’ve completed my final illustration. I’ve got calluses on my fingers from gripping me pen and my right hand seems permanently clenched. But I’m incredibly pleased with the final result, it really encompasses all my drawing styles and the diversity of patterns that I’ve found here. And there’s just so many stories hidden throughout the piece. I look forward to sharing it with you back home…and I’m also looking forward to working in3-D for my next project.









And here’s a little piece I wrote for our final presentations last night. We invited all of our host families and mentors for a “spectacle,” a performance cabaret of sorts at our house. I did a spoken word narrative that explained the illustration, though having this translated into Bambara was, um, interesting since it got fairly conceptual and abstract...


This story begins with a prophecy in August,
a hint from a jinn, or Erica’s Larium.
A cat walks silently, no flesh, just bones
and patters its soft pads to hide in the folds of her subconscious.

It’s only in Timbuktu that it reveals itself,
empty and hung like shoes tossed over a wire.
It’s creepy, iconic, and humorous for those with dark humor,
a cat eaten by kids, left for us toubabs to discover.
Just one image of many, from two weeks of Mali travel
that repeats in my mind and the minds of those traveling with me.

We travel by van, with more people than seats.
Every space is occupied, this jigsaw of limbs.
“Your feet’s in my face, my hand grabs your thigh, and someone’s head’s in my crotch.”

We jump on the bumps when we forget to slow down,
With rattles and vibrations sent from the ground.

My mind flies above, to the future and past,
to anything that avoids this discomfort of now.

I meet Erica outside, content in the sky
and she explains she only travels by wing.
From these heights, she can spy houses below,
squares and rectangles that jumble together
and crowd and sprawl outward through the savannah.

She unzips her vow of silence
to sing a song of penguins
who peck until they pop through her confines of speech.
It’s gravity, not freedom, that carries them into the sunset,
since they’re penguins after all
and penguins can’t fly.

The grass writhes with an undercurrent of snakes
and they mingle with the ghosts of newly crashed penguins.
In darkness they wait for weary travelers in Segou
and whisper promises of a restless sleepless hot night.

We rise to visit, the island of Djenne
and arrive as the sun sets with the wide shadows of dusk
We watch the edges of buildings blend together
and only our minds continue the lines
to make sense of the doorways and rooftops and windows.

At night, the island wears its darkness with ease.
No street lamps to show where our dusty feet walk.
But the stars and the moon are enough for us wanderers
who walks past the mud mosque that silently watches.
A massive shadow in the twilight of stars.

Next, in the hot market of Mopti we wait
and fend of these hustlers, our “brothers” and “cousins”
and sit amongst piles of drying fresh fish.

Jake and Kunal sneak off around dusk
and return with success, a wine bottle in hand.

We swig periodically, and it tastes like water,
then a red wine,
and finally it finishes like rum.
Liquid warmth that burns as it moves down our throats.

Jamila closes her eyes in the unknown darkness of that night
aboard a ferry where we sleep 12 to a room.
One solitary light barely illuminates our quarters
and Monica swears she saw a cockroach crawl into the corner.

Dawn shines in brilliant whiteness and the room goes black to frame the scene outside.
Bleary eyes adjust to see the new landscape
and minds explode at the vastness that stretches from horizon to horizon.

India and I sit and muse as we watch
about the passing landscape from this 3rd class viewpoint,
Experiencing the world like pets trapped in a cage.

Now, it’s midnight in Timbuktu and Cam looks at the sky.
It’s profound scale mimics his revelations here on earth
and a meteor shoots as a sign.
He remembers a constellation, a perfect quadrilateral,
but I don’t know where it is, so I draw all the stars as quadrilaterals.

Nearby, stardust turns to desert dust
for the Boys, Jake and Kunal,
surrounded unknowingly by a camp of sleeping Tauregs.
They scoop handful upon handful of sand into their guitars,
a silent ritual, except for the metal rustlings of sand against strings
and the occasional bleat of a camel.

On another night, a star casts a wide arc.
Fingers pointing, we follow, and call it a satellite.
Kunal wonders, is this where our black and white soccer game comes from?
Do the players and fans realize we’re watching here in Dogon?

The plains of this place, walled in by the falaise
are wide landscapes for one’s mind to expand.
We walk methodically separate from each other
and lose ourselves in these hot afternoon thoughts.

I’m sure I had more profound thoughts than this;
but all I can remember are foods that I missed.
I wanted sushi and wasabi, orange juice and ice
and bagels and cream cheese and brownies and pizza
and apple crisp, crab cakes, and perhaps most of all,
really
really
good Italian bread with extra virgin olive oil and a dash of balsamic vinegar.

But the only vegetables we see here are grown from the earth.
Raised in raised beds,
mud earthen walls that cradle the bright green shoots of young plants.
And we walk through these fields, and watch women who watch us walking past.

Em sits in a Thinker-esque pose and gazes across the great Dogon Mesa
and she pretends it’s Mars with its red plains of solitude.
But she’ll have to wait until night for the galaxy to show.
In this clear air, we can see the Milky Way
perhaps called Le Lait, by our friends, les francais.

Stars flow through the sky to the deserts and rivers
and link and carry our memories together.
Their curves oscillate and beautifully reach
until all are wrapped and tightly entangled.

In the distance, I see two fishermen on a boat.
They are confidently balanced with the grace of those with years on the water.
Poles push them forward through time, these Malian gondoliers and
I think, what connects these two men, to each other and to me?

What nets do we hold in the spaces between and what are we trying to catch?

These threads are beautiful, invisible to all
but also connecting us all to each other

Why patterns, why repetition, why even bother?
What is worth learning in the hours hunched over
drawing unceasingly with the faintest of hand movements.

They can fill a space, they give content to the empty.

They can hide our mistakes, such as ink smears and oil stains and one smashed mosquito.

They can frame the world and bring order to chaos.

And they can tell a story,
As each cell becomes stronger with the presence of neighbors
becomes the whole is greater than the sum of its parts.

A cliché, I know, but isn’t this true,
for life is so much richer when experienced with others.
For their perspectives and stories and collective memories,
for their laughter and tears and sharing of fears,
for the comfort of knowing that you’re not alone
in this crazy and complex world we know as life.