Bureaucracy for a raging feminist

You can’t go long here without Malian bureaucracy (and the easy ways to get around it) strike you. Especially when it comes to dealing with the police or other officials. When I went back to register my motorcycle yesterday, I pulled out my license that I’d bought for 2009, and this very unhelpful guy is like, “Where’s your license for 2008?” I’m trying to ask him why in the world I would have a license for 2008 when it’s 2009 right now and I was following the rules.

A more helpful man explained to me that this cheap registration measure only applied to those motorcycles bought before November 2008 as an incentive to get people with old motorcycles to register them. But conveniently, there was a guy there selling 2008 licenses, and the man signed and dated it October 2008. It just cost me another 6000 to buy the old license. Still, it would be better than paying 200 bucks for the legitimate registration.

Now that I had the new license, Oumar and I had to go back and make new photocopies, then wait for the man in charge to have him take down my motorcycle information. That all passed relatively smoothly, but then when it came to having to pay for the plates or something, everything came grinding to a halt. One man was filling out all of the papers, and there were at least two dozen men waiting to have their papers filled out. People were getting agitated. It was already 5 o’ clock, and everyone (including if not especially the people working) wanted to go home.

Deferential treatment kind of makes me feel uncomfortable, but for once, it was nice. A police officer insisted they get this nice young lady done by the end of the day, and I didn’t complain. I paid my 4000 and was on my way. Unfortunately, I have to go back tomorrow afternoon and pay the rest, since the lady who takes that money wasn’t there anymore.

In the evening, Phil and I went up to the highway for dinner. There, I got in an argument with a man probably looking to be our guide (but who quickly abandoned those ideas, since we said we lived there) over women’s equality. It started out with the motorcycle, as usual. About how my motorcycle is too much for women, about how I should buy a scooter instead. That turned into him telling me how “Westerners think that men and women are the same,” to which I replied, “Yes, because we are.” He went on to explain to me how no, we weren’t equal, and this was evidenced by the fact that out of 45 presidents of the US, the most advanced country on earth, not one has been a woman. This means that men and women aren’t equal. I countered with the fact that out of 44 American presidents, not one was black, so does that mean that black people and white people aren’t equal? He saw my point. I told him he’d insulted me, and he gave me all of his apologies, saying that all he meant was that he thought I would look pretty on a scooter. I told him I had no need for beauty, only for power. He left for an appointment.

I get so riled up. I know I shouldn’t be so argumentative, but I can’t be complacent either. He said he enjoyed talking to me and that next time he would know not to say something like that to a foreigner. Food for thought, I guess.

I did some work on my grammar after dinner, finished reading The Five People You Meet in Heaven, washed some underwear in a bucket, then went to bed.

Phil apparently might have a lung infection. This is what his doctor told him on the phone from Bamako. He’s started taking antibiotics and will hopefully be better soon. If that’s what the problem is. In any case, he’ll be around here until he gets better.