Hotel de la Jeunesse

by Eva Peskin | 2009

We are trying to make the second cup of tea, I am making the foam, and the dancer is explaining where he comes from. He insists on explaining in English, although his English is terrible, which seems to be a recurring motif along this journey. He is from Senegal? But he has been everywhere? He has been to Europe? He now tells us that our travel plans are bunk and that we should not take the bus. But we already have our tickets, and he is not a very credible source. He informed us earlier that he and his Spaniard friend have smoked five joints today. The Spaniard doesn't say much, and he looks very surprised all the time.

But this other guy, from last night, he won't stop talking. He is wearing the same clothes, I wonder if he is homeless. They don't have homeless people here, not ones that I have seen, but this guy is pretty weird. And he smells awful. I wish he weren't sitting so close to me. I wish he didn't look at me like a puppy who has found his mother. I wish he would stop talking, his English is even worse than the dancer's. I have honestly no idea what he is saying, which makes me nervous because he is talking a lot and only to me. From his expression, I think he is making a joke. If I laugh, that will encourage him. If I don't laugh, that will probably incent him to try harder.

I have made a lovely foam. Our poor friends, they seem like such swell guys. They make postcards and art projects with kids that they sell to raise money for their education. And they were so nice to show us around yesterday and today. They didn't even ask us if we have husbands. Now they have to fight with a trio of lunatics for our attention. Why don't they just tell them to go away? The dancer and the Spaniard leave of their own accord, but I think they will come back. They are probably going to smoke.

Really, this guy cannot speak English. I will try to encourage him to use French, you know I speak it very well. But he needs to practice his English if he is going to be a guide! There are so many guides in Mali, I think he should aim for a different line of work. Our friends seem to be doing very well for themselves working with the children and helping at the hotel. Ah yes, but they are like guides, they took us around yesterday. But they weren't weird and explain-y about it. They did not try to force us to dance in uncomfortably public places, that was you.

The dancer and the Spaniard come back, just in time for the third cup of tea. Jillian and I declare that we have to go to bed after this cup, as we have to get up early tomorrow to catch our bus. The dancer reiterates that we should take a plane instead. A wave of emotion crosses the face of the annoying guide-in-training; perhaps it is panic, perhaps it is desperation. Regardless, he moves in closer and says something to me that I don't totally catch, but sounds like a very inappropriate proposition. Excuse me? I draw back. He seems to understand that he has aggravated me. Excuse me, what are you saying? He smiles and tells me the punch line of a joke that some how insults my father. That isn't very nice, I tell him. It is very disrespectful to insult my father. He is just joking, he says, but I think that I have had enough of our muddled half-conversation for tonight. No! He is just joking, don't go! But we have to go. The dancer and the Spaniard sit in a stupor, unaware of the drama being played out next to them. The guide comes in closer and asks when he will see me again, he has to see me again. If destiny causes our paths to cross again, then I'll know you are serious, and then we'll see what happens, ok? Ok, you promise? I promise. Good night. Good night, you are like an angel!

Our two friends walk us to the stairs; they are sad to see us go. They hope we come back to Bamako sometime. Oh, we do too, Bamako is wonderful. When we get to the top of the stairs, we turn and wave to them before traversing the long, empty corridor to our room. Our beds are covered in dead bugs, even though we didn't turn the light on. The fan must have blown them in from the hallway. In the dark, we assess the treasures we had amassed on our whirlwind tour of Mali, pack up our belongings, and shake the bug corpses off our sheets.

Related work by Eva Peskin:
Going (Coming) Home
Centre-ville
The Resto
Ataaya
Adhan

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