Madame Diuf immediately commandeered the entire span of the window with her magnificent self. She picked through the heaps of fruits and vegetables swaying above the platform. She haggled and quarreled. Occasionally, she would turn from the window and show us a bunch of green bananas, or a ripe papaya. She would weigh her loot in her soft, plump hand, and exclaim triumphantly: “À Bamako? Cinq fois plus cher! À Dakar? Dix fois plus cher! Voilà!” And she would stash the purchased fruit on the floor and on the shelves. There weren’t many other buyers. The fruit bazaar undulated before our eyes practically untouched. I wondered how these besieging people made a living. The next train would not pass this way for several days. No settlement was visible nearby. Who do they sell to? Who buys from them?
The train jerked and set off, and Madame Diuf sat down, satisfied. But she sat down in such a way that there was now noticeably more of her. She not only sat down but sprawled out imperiously, as if she had decided to liberate her massive body from its hitherto invisible corsets, to let it breathe, set it free. The compartment filled up with the ever expanding, panting, and sweaty Madame, whose shoulders and hips, arms and legs lorded over us, pushing Edgar and Clare (the Scot and his girlfriend) into one corner and me into the other, until I had barely any room left at all.
I wanted to step out of the compartment to stretch my legs, but this turned out to be impossible. It was the hour of prayer, and the corridors were filled with men kneeling on rugs, bowing rhythmically. The corridor was the only place where they could pray. Even so, the train ride posed a liturgical problem: Islam commands its faithful to pray facing Mecca, whereas our train constantly swerved, turned and changed direction, positioning itself at such angles as to put the faithful in danger of prostrating themselves with their backs to the holy places.
The train twisted and turned, but the landscape was always the same. The Saheclass="underline" an arid, sandy, beige, at times brown plain, heated by the sun. Here and there, above the sand and the rocks, patches of dry, rough, straw-yellow grass. Bushes of pink barberries and slender, bluish tamarisks. Scattered over the shrubs, grasses, and earth, the thin, pale shadows of the knotty, thorny acacias, growing all around. Quiet. Emptiness. The quivering, white air of a hot day.
In the large Tambacounda station, the locomotive broke down. Some valves burst, and a stream of oil trickled down the embankment. The local boys hastily filled their bottles and cans with it. Nothing is wasted here. If grain spills, it will be carefully gathered; if a pitcher of water cracks, every drop possible will be saved and drunk.
It looked as if we were going to be standing here quite some time. A crowd of curious onlookers from the town quickly assembled. I encouraged the two Scots to step outside, have a look around, talk a little. They categorically refused. They did not want to meet or speak to anyone. They did not want to get to know anyone, visit with anyone. If someone started to approach them, they turned and walked away. Ideally they would prefer simply to run. Their attitude was the result of limited but bad experience. They had seen that whenever they engaged in conversation with anyone, that that person always wanted something from them later. Different things: help securing a scholarship, employment, money. He or she invariably had sick parents, younger siblings in their care, and had not eaten for several days now. These complaints and lamentations were constantly repeated. They didn’t know how to react. They felt helpless. Finally, discouraged and disappointed, they made a joint decision: no contact, encounters, conversations. And they were now sticking by this.
I told the Scots that these requests on the part of the people they had met follow from the belief of many Africans that the white man has everything, or that, in any event, he has a great deal, much more than the black man. And if a white man suddenly crosses an African’s path, it’s as if a chicken has laid him a golden egg. He must take advantage of this opportunity — he must remain focused, must not miss his chance. All the more so because so many of these people really have nothing, need everything, and want so much.
But this behavior is also a manifestation of a great cultural difference, a dissimilarity of expectations. African culture generally is a culture of exchange. You give me something, and it is my responsibility to reciprocate. It is not only my responsibility; my dignity, my honor, my humanity require it. Human relations assume their highest form during the process of exchange. The union of two young people, who through their progeny prolong man’s presence on earth and ensure the continuation of the species — why, even that union comes into being through an act of interclan exchange: the woman is traded for various material goods indispensible to her clan. In this culture, everything assumes the form of a gift, a present demanding requital. The unreciprocated gift lies heavily on the head of the one who has received it, torments his conscience, and can even bring down misfortune, illness, death. Thus the receipt of a present is a signal, a goad to immediate reciprocal action, to a quick restoring of equilibrium: I received? I repay!
Many misunderstandings arise because one side does not understand that things of a very different order can be exchanged; for example, we can exchange something of symbolic value for something of material value, and vice versa. If an African approaches the Scots, he showers various gifts on them: he bestows upon them his presence and attention, imparts information (warning them about thieves, for example), ensures their safety, etc. It goes without saying that this generous man now awaits reciprocity, recompense, the satisfaction of his expectations. It is to his astonishment that he observes the Scots make sour faces; more, that they turn on their heels and walk away!
In the evening we continued on our way. It grew a bit cooler, one could breathe. We were traveling east, deeper and deeper into the Sahel, into Africa’s interior. The train tracks led through Goudiry, Diboli, and a larger town already across the border in Mali: Kayes. At each station Madame Diuf shopped. The compartment was already bursting with oranges, watermelons, papayas, grapes; now she bought carved stools, brass candleholders, Chinese towels, French soaps. Each transaction was punctuated with her triumphant cries: “Voilà, m’sieurs, dames! Combien cela coute à Bamako? Cinq fois plus cher! Et à Dakar? Dix fois! Bon Dieu! Quel achat!” She now took up the entire length of one banquette. I lost my seat entirely, but even the Scots had only a small sliver left on the other side of the compartment, now packed to the rafters with fruit, laundry detergents, blouses, bunches of dried herbs, sacks of seeds, millet, and rice.
I had the impression — I was a little drowsy and felt that I was coming down with a fever — that Madame was becoming ever more immense, that there was more and more of her. Her full bou-bou caught the wind coming in through the window, swelled, ballooned like a sail, undulated and fluttered. She was returning home to Bamako, proud of her cheap purchases. Satisfied, victorious, she filled the whole compartment with her person.
Looking at Madame Diuf, at her ubiquitousness, her dynamic and commanding presence, her monopolizing and unapologetic omnipotence, I realized how much Africa had changed. I remembered how I had ridden this railroad years ago. I was then alone in my compartment; no one dared to disturb the peace and encroach upon the comfort of a European. And now the proprietress of a stall in Bamako, the mistress of this land, without so much as blinking an eye, pushes three Europeans out of the compartment, demonstrating unequivocally that there is no room for them here.