Last Saturday we attended the Marine Ball, an annual event to celebrate the anniversary of the formation of the Marines. I’m not going to tell you about it, because they would have to kill me. Not because it was top secret, but because I’m the kind of person who struggles to keep a straight face during pomp and circumstance, even when the solemn speeches about the "warrior ethos" are delivered by people I know and like.
This year’s ball was held at the Hotel Salaam. I don’t know why I like the Salaam so much -- maybe because it’s a swanky hotel at which I’m not actually a guest. If I were, I might feel guilty about spending too much of my own, or someone else’s, money.
The first time I went there, we had drinks at the jazz bar upstairs. The entire hotel is decorated in a sort of Arabic-influenced Art Deco fashion, and nowhere more than the cool, dim jazz bar. We nestled ourselves in a plush, midnight blue booth near the door. No band was playing that Monday, so the dance floor was empty and the mirrors behind it reflected only ourselves. Several businessmen talked quietly at the bar and ate roasted shelled peanuts from a little white dish. The pace picked up when a lively young African woman entered, heavily made up, wearing flashy earrings, tight jeans, and a toddler on her arm. She spoke familiarly to both the bartender and the customers, but I’m not certain that she actually knew them. She was just one of those people who is comfortable with strangers immediately, sure of their warm welcome. Her son was the same, and he wore out his welcome pretty quickly, smashing crackers on my lap and dropping drooled-on peanuts in my soda. If we complained loudly enough, she would rush over to beam apologetically at us and half-heartedly scold him; within minutes she’d plopped him down on another stranger’s lap.
Last Saturday evening at the Salaam began with cocktails mixed by Muslim bartenders who had never touched a drop of alcohol in their lives. Whatever liquor you ordered, they had to read the label on every bottle, brown and white, until they found it. If you didn’t watch them pour -- and tell them when to stop -- you’d end up with a glass of gin and a splash of tonic.
We had looked forward to the food, and indeed it was good, somewhat different than the standard Bamako restaurant fare. The menu was the usual beef, chicken, or capitaine, but instead of being grilled and served plain, they were swimming in rich French-style sauces. I loaded up on corn, cucumbers, and quiche, but thinking of the current cholera outbreak, passed on the lettuce salad.
During the evening the detachment commander awarded door prizes, some of which were quite desirable (plane tickets to Dakar and Paris), some of which were less so (lunch at Les Amandines, where every expat already eats too often). A suspicious number of French guests won, leading us to speculate that a fix was rigged to improve U.S. relations abroad. Later, we reappraised: a suspicious number of French guests were in attendance, and consequently winning a disproportionate number of the prizes. The officers were easily identifiable by their short-sleeved white uniforms and shiny white shoes, the women by their cigarettes, and the couples by their well-practiced dance moves.
Ourselves? We didn’t leave empty-handed, but we might as well have. We won a gift certificate from the Evadame salon, which I can redeem for a “brushing” (hair styling) or E. can redeem for a haircut. [If you are wondering why that's funny, you haven't seen our heads -- mine short-cropped, his virtually bald.] I wonder if the French had anything to do with that …
