Forget Me Not

Life in Mali is not easy. But it is easy to forget just how difficult and different it is.

It is easy to forget what it's like to take a scalding shower and sleep cuddled up under blankets. It is easy to forget that it is not normal everywhere to spend four hours waiting for a bus. That bananas should be yellow and oranges orange is quickly lost. You begin to believe that all women in short skirts are prostitutes and wonder why you had ever thought them appropriate. The smells of pine trees, folded laundry, and freshly cut grass are too foreign to hold a spot in your memory. So, too, you forget the ease of tap water and the bitter, sharp taste of real coffee.

But you do not forget what it is like to be surrounded by those who knew you before you became Samouhan. You do not forget the ease of talking in your native tongue, nor the liberty and comfort in speaking to your mother without a calling card beeping to remind you of the minutes ticking away too fast.

And ten days in Tunisia with my parents was a better reminder than I could ever have asked for. After settling down for our first cafe and gazing across the wide avenue and at the high heels streaming by, I had forgotten. As fast as I forgot how much I had missed my father's detailed stories and my mother's never ending enthusiasm, I had forgotten what it was like to go without in Mali.

Dipping into the blue Mediterranean, I did not think of how I had once shown Aissa a picture of the Atlantic for her to glimpse an idea of the great expanse a body of water can hold.

On the bus to Bizerte, a picture of Lahmine holding onto the side of the van on his way to another market did not enter my head.

Passing the fields of melon and corn, grapes and olives, pears and plums, I did not wonder whether the drought had ended in Mali.

When I turned the screws and opened the taps to wash off the salt water, I did not ask myself who had pulled water for Banta with me gone.

Walking through rich cork forests in the cool air of Ain Draham, looking out at the Algerian border, I did not consider how my village might go about replenishing its own dwindling trees, the consequence of cooking over charcoal and wood fires.

Invited to lunch at the home of a Tunisian family, I did not marvel at the splendor of a home made of cement instead of mud; I was not surprised that the meal was served with bread, drinks, salad and appetizers, rather than the bowl of rice Sitan would prepare for her family to share.

At Carthage, gazing out towards Italy from Dido's hilltop spot; from the height of Antonin's Baths; past the tall whitewashed houses draped in bougainvillea and the insulated presidential palace, I did not think of the view over the village at sunset from Adama's fields.

Bathing in the hammam with my mother, surrounded by generations of women racing back and forth with buckets of hot and cold water, enveloped in steam, I have forgotten Tata shouting directions as her daughter, Azy, takes her bucket bath in the open air.

And while sipping cafes in the Medina and wine in La Marsa; while strolling the streets of Tunis in jeans with my hair down my back, I did not feel Mali holding onto me.

Oh, sure. I talked about Mali non-stop. I gave my parents the rundown of everyone in the village. I compared everything in Tunisia to Mali. But it slipped away so fast, that sense of closeness and belonging.

Aissa called while we wandered the web of streets in Sidi Bou Said, the sun setting. Bambara sounded thick and blunt on my tongue, but there Aissa was, slipping Mali back into my consciousness and under my skin.

If it is so easy for me to leave for ten days and forget, no wonder most of us had never given Mali a thought before I became Samouhan. Small surprise, then, that the Tunisian family with whom we lunched had no idea where Mali was on the African continent until we opened up the map. It is so much easier to talk of what we know and where we are. One day, a day which promises to come faster than I am prepared for, Mali will become only memories. All I can hope is to retain the immediacy and understand the reality that I will leave behind. And I can hope for Aissa's voice to call me away from self absorption now and then, too.

The morning after Aissa called in Sidi Bou Said, I spent my last few hours wandering the streets. I stopped in a bookstore and a French publisher approached me. He asked if I lived in Tunisia. I said no, informing him that I was living in Mali. "Jesus Christ," he replied.

At the airport, I approached the desk to check-in. "This flight is for Bamako," the Air Tunis representative informed me firmly, clearly sure that I was lost and had wound up at the wrong counter. After reassuring him that I was in the right place, he asked me if I knew I needed a visa for Mali, as if still questioning my clarity of mind in going to Bamako.

Before my plane boarded, I sat down for one last cafe. Thrown together by too many people and not enough chairs, I was joined by a Tunisian man, Said, who was awaiting the arrival of a friend. He too was surprised to hear that I lived in Mali. "Life in Mali is difficult, n'est-ce pas?" he asked.

Yes, is the simple answer. But, oh, the wonders! Oh, the joys! Because, after all, when you have forgotten about espresso and indoor plumbing, it's just life in Mali.