Sylvia's Journal

I have started my last month at MSH. The lane change, as I consider it, turns out to be more complicated than I thought. For the first time since I (not really) negotiated my salary in 31 years I have to think about what my compensation should be. As a self-employed person I have to take care of things, purchase equipment and services that were provided to me as an employee. I have to figure, under Trump’s new tax laws, how I should position myself, tax-wise.  I am educating myself, calling on family, current and ex colleagues and other experts. The more I learn the more opaque everything is becoming – things that seemed simple at the start of my lane change. I am relying heavily on my two daughters who have learned things for me, sometimes the hard way.

I have added myself to Sita’s MassCollaborative enterprise. Her partners are OK with me, this white haired person, to join their team of high energy, creative and entrepreneurial millennials. Some people congratulate me on my retirement, but I am not retiring, just changing lanes.

Part of the new freedom is that Axel and I can now do things spontaneously, like attending one of the Cape Cod Institute sessions, as we did for years in the past. But this time we won’t be camping out at the Wellfleet Audubon campground, nice as that sound. We got a friend of a friend to lend us her summer cottage in Brewster. We also won’t bring the kayaks as we used to do, for our sundowner outings. My arm strength is not what it used to be and my rotator cuffs never quite recovered. We are thinking of bringing our bikes, maybe. The essential luggage will be for hiking, reading, writing, sketching and watercoloring.

We are also traveling to San Diego for a reunion of colleagues who I first met at my very first American job. We are still friends, 35 years later. We try to see each other at least once a year – it’s a ZugFest, named after our much revered author Leane Zugsmith, who is our raison d’etre, aside from the friendships.

Enjoying life, including this kind of travel as well as paying gigs, is our motto now. Axel is only 9 years away from the average life expectancy for white males in the US. Nine years, at this stage in our life, is nothing. We are starting to lose friends here and there, men and women; none made it to their gender’s average. This is an uncomfortable realization, the fact that we are entering this corridor towards ‘average.’ It’s a lane change alright, to the lane on the right, the slower one while the millennials and those coming after them are pressing on in the fast lane. But slow does not have to be boring.

Yesterday was a rough day. I found myself totally depleted when I returned to my hotel room. What had depleted me are the challenges in my work here; the rampage in Las Vegas; the depressing and inane remarks from the gun lobby people; the misery in Puerto Rico, and the hidden misery of all the Caribbean islands that are no longer in the spotlight. And then there is the chaos I see in Bamako, a city and country that was so full of hope and visibly getting a handle on its development when I was last here more than a decade ago.  A coup in 2012 changed its course.

I had to call home to re-center and replenish. I managed to talk and Facetime with Axel, Tessa and then the Blisses. This helped, especially seeing Faro doing a Chinese bow and saying something else in Chinese that no one else understood, but it sounded very Chinese. He is learning a lot and seem to be enjoying it.

I don’t particularly like to travel by myself.  Meals in restaurants by oneself are boring and are just about food; and when the food is not so remarkable, meal time is not something I look forward to. I had such a large meal at my first dinner in this hotel that it served me for 3 more days, every day another chicken leg or wing. The little refrigerator in my room allowed me to have the leftovers packed up.

But the next day I found out that it is more of a freezer. I called the hotel technician who said he fixed it but he didn’t, and so I ate frozen (but cooked) chicken legs and wings for 3 nights in a row. The 4 dollar Pink lady apple I bought (imported from France) was crisp but I made the mistake of putting it in the fridge/freezer and so it froze and wasn’t as crisp anymore. These not so exciting meals were made palatable by fabulous local fruits: papaya, pineapple, bananas and melon. I bought a large Chinese knife to cut the fruits.  I will leave it behind for the woman who cleans my room

At lunch time I usually join with those ICRC colleagues who actually eat lunch. Many skip lunch altogether, and one even skips breakfast. No wonder some people have little energy during the day – it is not just the heat.

A couple of small restaurants are open only during work days for lunch – they serve the staff of ICRC,  UNESCO, Oxfam and other development agencies in the area. They serve only African food and the menu is limited and conveyed orally, and then served instantly for very little money.

During the weekend and after hours this part of Bamako is dead. There is construction of fancy apartment buildings but most are not yet inhabited. And so there are also no supermarkets nearby.  The closest is a store containing a jumble of kitchen and household stuff, run by people who look like Saudis (but I am told they are Malians) – this means of course also that they don’t sell wine – one of my few indulgences as I work on my computer in the evening, dealing with the never ending email stream.

Way back during my regular visits to Mali in the 90s I used to stay in a small guesthouse in the center of town. There were many places to eat. It feels like a different place now; and the people I used to know here are either gone or I can’t find them on social media.

Tonight is my last night in Mali – tomorrow I will conclude this visit and board a Turkish Airlines Plane that will drop me off in Niamey on its way back to Istanbul.

When I travel I often have a massage because weekends are usually full of computer work and a massage is just what the body needs. And so I asked around at ICRC and a young Spanish-Chinese woman gave me the name of a Chinese masseuse/hairdresser who she frequents on weekends. I promised not to take her slot and made an appointment for Sunday morning. Here addresses don’t really exist – to find a place people use reference points such as hotels, or military barracks or large signs.  I was directed to look for a Chinese sign near a well-known supermarket named ‘La Fourmi’ (the ant).

I now consider I have a driver, Suleiman, who drives a taxi that is not held together with wire and tape. Despite his dirty carburetor he gets me places I want to go, including the search for a bathing suit. We easily found the place, next to the Chinese embassy and in a complex called ‘Cite Chinoise,’  which housed a supermarket that clearly caters to the many Chinese who live here. Next door was a small hair salon with two massage tables in the back. If it wasn’t for the recommendation I would not have entered as it looked all very sketchy. But then I was reminded of my masseuse in Kabul who had a set up that would have intimidated everyone: her bedroom in back of a kitchen in back of an office that sold large equipment such as bulldozers and military vehicles.  And so, I reasoned, why not try the Chinese lady.

I ended up getting a dry massage from a younger woman who, according to the one I had been recommended, was just as good, ‘also Chinese,’ as if that was as much as a recommendation one needed. I was given a satiny pajama top and bottom and laid down for what I thought was going to be a relaxing massage. Little did I know about dry Chinese massage: for a while the word ‘ferocious’ came to mind, as if my masseuse was both angry and impatience. Then I thought of ‘wild’ as she banged my muscles into submission. Now, over an hour later, I am still stunned and ready for a long nap.  I feel as if I have been engaged in serious exercise for a long time. But on my app that I use to ensure I exercise more, massage is not included in the categories. Maybe it should include Chinese Massage to count as a workout.

For about two weeks I wasn’t sure whether I would travel or not on Monday September the 25^th. The contract wasn’t signed until the 21^st and my passport with the Mali and Niger visas didn’t arrive until the 23^rd. Axel started to include me in his plans after the 25^th, but then had to leave me out again, as the travel did start when planned; the ticket was purchased on Friday, the passport came on Saturday and I left on Monday.  It’s called JIT travel.

Before my trip we traveled to the far end of Long Island to enjoy a long weekend with good friends in beautiful North and South Fork, visiting wineries, swimming in the balmy waters of Long Island and eating great food. If Jose was still blowing on our way down, on our return on the ferry we enjoyed a 10+ day on the deck during the hour and a half crossing of Long Island Sound.

I was able to use Delta’s upgrade certificates for the crossing of the Atlantic which meant a good half night sleep before squeezing into coach for the remainder of the journey from France to Mali. I arrived early afternoon at the new airport (which already looked kind of old) but surely an improvement over the chaos at the old airport. Slowly all the old chaotic airports I remember from early in my career are disappearing. Senegal is about to open its brandnew airport in December.

The hotel I reserved turned out to be as far away from ICRC and where I would be working as possible. I was given a pricey studio with an ill equipped kitchenette, fancy barstools, large elephant furniture, an enormous flat TV screen. The windows were of the kind you find in bathrooms and cannot look through, which created a kind of prison feeling. The shower spouted in all directions and the breakfast wasn’t ready before I had to leave for the long trip across town. The only good thing it had going for it was a small gym and a lovely garden.

Discovering how long it took at rush hour to cut across town, while my employer had a hotel right next door, I moved and settled into a more standard hotel with a balcony overlooking a nice, unused except by me, pool, and windows that let the world in. All this also for half the price, and best of all, I can walk to ICRC as it is right next door.

To use the pool I had to buy a bathing suit as I had not packed mine. I usually don’t like to swim in front of a restaurant or with a terrace around – prude that I am – but here the pool is tucked away amidst foliage and birds and no one uses it, it is entirely mine.  I got a local taxi to help me find a bathing suit. Apparently the season had passed and only tiny bikinis were left. I told the sales lady that I was too old for a bikini, and too big for the one she showed me. I finally managed to construct a suit at a sport store, putting together an exercise top and bottom that would work fine. Ever since I have enjoyed my daily, very meditative swim.