Something unpleasant happened to me last Saturday, and I didn't want to write about it right away, when I was still bitter and upset and confused. Now, that makes it sound much more horrible than it really was, so I better hurry up and tell you what happened.

I spent the morning shopping at the Sahel and Mia Mali -- the two boutiques that have semi-annual sales of locally-made crafts. (You may remember me talking about the Sahel last Christmas.) I stocked up on hand-woven cotton blankets, hand-dyed Mauritanian cloth, reed mats (they make great bulletin boards), and other gifts. I was heading down the Bla Bla road with my goods. I slowed down and signalled to turn left at the Tamana Hotel. I waited for two cars coming the other way to pass.

I started to turn -- and I heard a screech and a yelp and then there was a moto lying on its side next to my car.

This is one of my biggest fears in Mali: an accident.

I froze. The boy (he looked about 16) who had been driving the moto had managed to hop off before the bike wiped out. He was walking around and seemed unhurt. I pulled off on the side road and got out of the car to assess the situation. Me: shaken, but okay. Him: dazed, but seemingly okay. (He spoke not a word of French, not even Oui or Non.) My car: not even dented. His moto: a little banged up. I was relieved to see that we'd barely even had a fender-bender and my anxiety started dissipating.

Then the crowd started gathering. This is very common. I suppose it happens partly because there's just so many people on the street all the time -- cabine operators, guys hawking phone cards and cigarettes and sunglasses, women carrying mangoes or carrots to the market, women carrying laundry to the river. If something unusual happens, and everyone within earshot stops and looks -- voila, instant crowd. Sometimes I hear arguments over who was at fault; mostly, though, the onlookers are just quiet and curious.

I anticipated maybe being in this kind of situation someday, and I always told myself that I would stay calm. Well, reader, I did not stay calm. Frankly, I lost my shit.

I was shaken from the accident. I was a little angry already because the dumb kid had been trying to pass me on the left, when I was obviously turning left. I was nervous about the growing crowd -- even though I knew they were not threatening, it's a horribly visceral feeling, being confronted by a mob of strangers. I was nervous about not being able to explain what happened in French.

Then the crowd started trying to blame me. One tall, cocky young man took on the role of ringleader. He tried to tell me that my turn signal was broken; I quickly proved him wrong. Then he tried to tell me that I had forgotten to turn it on; I was sure I hadn't forgotten.

I explained over and over: I was driving, I slowed down, I signalled, he passed me on the left! It's not my fault! He responded over and over: "C'est simple. You just give him some money, and then it's over."

I'm not sure if it was my fear of admitting guilt, or my wounded sense of justice, or if I was just pissed at the guy for being so arrogant, but I was enraged by this suggestion. "Non, c'est simple!" I shouted back at him. "It's not my fault. I'm not going to pay."

We remained at this impasse for a while. Finally, seeing no other way out, short of calling the police, who we would have to wait on, then pay off, I gave the kid 5000 CFA (about $10). I was still furious and terrified. "Five thousand francs," I said as I gave it to him. "Then that's it. C'est fini. A banna." He seemed satisfied, but more importantly, so did the crowd.

So it ended. The experience left me bitter and confused. I am always proud to make sweeping generalizations about how kind and helpful Malians are. I like to relate the story of the flat tire I got late one Saturday night, and how the first two men who came along changed it for me. The accident and its aftermath shattered my illusions, or warped them, or showed me something about Mali that I didn't want to see.

I was still furious days later, when I drove by the Tamana Hotel for the first time since the accident. The ringleader was standing out front. He waved and smiled. I couldn't tell if he was being genuine or trying to taunt me; I rolled my eyes and gave him the most disgusted scowl I could muster. In hindsight, though, I think he was being genuine. I've heard that Malians don't hold grudges. "They don't just forgive, they totally forget," a friend told me -- and I guess they expect me to do the same.

After all, we were just doing a bit of playacting, weren't we? Everyone in the crowd knew I was ten, a hundred, a thousand times richer than the kid on the moto. He could never afford to fix his own bike, and, 5000 CFA not being too much for me to part with, I had to play along in order to give him the money without damaging his self-respect.

I like to think that I would have given him some money without the crowd demanding it, but who can say what I might have done.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Happily, something happened on Thursday to even things out, karmically speaking. I had parked downtown and was walking to the travel agent to buy my ticket for my vacation in June. A young man started walking next to me and I did my best to ignore him. In my experience, most young men that chat you up on the street are doing just that: chatting you up, or trying to sell you something. But not this guy.

I'm not sure what made me look him in the eye and respond. We wound up talking all the way to ESF Voyage -- he did most of the talking, telling me about his brother, who is an artisan of some kind, and produces items for the National Museum and the French Cultural Centre. He asked about my work. Ah yes, the Internet, he said. I would like to know more about it, but it's hard without a computer in the home. Then he mentioned a jazz club his brother played at. Oh, you mean Evasion? I said casually, like I was there every weekend.

You've been there? he asked.

Oh yeah, last Saturday ... My reply was vague.

We paused in front of ESF. I braced myself -- here's the part where he asks me for money, I thought cynically, or for my phone number -- but no. He asked if he could give me his email address. Of course, I said. He started to write his name: Amadou A. Dolo.

Dolo? I asked. That's a Dogon name, isn't it?

Yes, he said.

Well, that's my name! I said triumphantly, and we had a good laugh over how we were cousins, brothers and sisters really. Amadou wrote down his name and his email address. He also wrote down his complete mailing address, including the name of his village, so I can look his family up if I ever visit.

That is what I mean when I talk about friendly, generous people.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I drove by the Tamana again today. I confess I dare myself to -- it makes me nervous to make that left turn, so I want to do it again and again until it's routine once more. I drove by the little butiki and waved to the owner like I always do. He was chatting with someone who looked suspiciously like the man I called the ringleader. When I looked in the rearview mirror, he was flashing a thumbs-up just for me.

What the hell. I waved. Forgive and forget.