Sylvia's Journal

Our 33^rdEaster celebration took place before Easter because of my trip to Mali and our art camp that will follow. Mid-May is simply too late to associate with Easter. We lucked out on the one sunny and mild day in weeks. As usual it was a joyful gathering though several longtime and relatively new friends were missing because of our just-in-time invite.  We went electronic (with eVite) but will return to old fashioned invites in envelopes with real stamps next year.

In my clean up frenzy of the last few weeks I had injured my lower back, picking up and moving some items that I shouldn’t have. Impatient to wait for help I moved them anyways and in doing so, stupidly, hurt my back in a way I have never done before. I had instant sympathy for people complaining about their backs. Unable to get either a chiropractor or massage therapist to reduce the debilitating spasms Axel used his iStem on my back– a gadget that delivered small electrical currents to my lower back. It gave me some relief albeit temporarily. Sitting and standing was no problem, but getting up or bending over was very painful. I started to move like a (really) old person and wondered about my flight.

On the eve of Easter, the flight to Paris was only half full. Did people cancel trips because of one of the main attractions, the Notre Dame, being crossed off the tour program, I wondered? I had two front seats to myself and managed to sleep. Once in line to boarding the Bamako and Abidjan flight that luxury was gone – even on Easter Sunday. The flight was completely full. It’s a short flight, and this one a day flight, so I didn’t mind.  The back pain had eased – now I was simply stiff after the long flights, but not in pain.

I did not find the promised ICRC chauffeur holding up a sign to bring me to my hotel. I waited for about half an hour in 102 degrees and then got a taxi (climatisé).  Since the back doors had no handles and opened with difficulty the driver invited me to sit in front. I took the dusty seatbelt and clicked it in. The chauffeur laughed. It stopped the seatbelt sign from blinking.

Even though he said he knew where the hotel was he had to call a friend on his flip phone for directions. He pressed the flip phone between his shoulder and his ear and shiftied gears with his left hand. I asked him to stop multi-tasking. He agreed but then kept talking and driving.  I gestured he was about to lose his ride. He pulled over, finished his call and concentrated on the one task I was paying him for, except for removing his neon yellow  ‘taxi-aeroport’ vest, letting go of the steering wheel with both hands for an instant. I held my tongue.

To make small talk I asked him about the mangoes – it is that season here. I don’t think he understood me. A few kilometers later he suddenly stopped, in the middle of a busy road and put the car in reverse. He had spotted a woman selling mangoes. After that the ride was uneventful. 

On the dashboard in front of me, as if written with ‘wite-out’ I read:“monsieur so and so, telephone so and so, marketing mechanic, please contact on this number. Forbidden (‘Def.’) to speak with the driver,’ like the placard in a bus. We didn’t talk anymore after that. He did deliver me to the right hotel and in his car climatisé and so I gave him the  agreed upon 10 Euro fare.