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The BODY:

My lip is swollen by a mosquito bite. I think thats what African languages derive from, may be even the swollen lip became genetical.
My western skin is tense like a heated Djembe and slightly burning - hopefully of the sun not of wurms crawling beneath. I fell feverish having regular body temperature; what a wicked undetectable subtropical subfever. The very close coexistence and interaction between humans and insects here - cockroaches strawling feqrless through my foodplate and bugs of all button-sizes - make the tatoo on ,y body look different every day. The bites are hard to distinguish from the pimples, where non-body objects exit the skin. They take their chance whenever there is enough water coming to and from the shower to scrub off the layers of red muddy crust. Pus is not producesed as I am constantly dehydrated - if so I would look like a milky utter.
The good part: Whenever I get hurt by a nail or so my body closes that possible gate of infection immediately as some sort of shock reaction. I almost forgot to mention my heavy cold. Nose running constantly, which is well known to most travellers of this region (we have not met one yet by the way), but feels still bizarre in dusty heat. In contrast to Asia handkerchiefs are well-known, on the contrary toilet paper has got no visa to Westafrica; there seem to be import restrictions.
To make the visual aspect of my body complete: i am growing my belly even not eating much. The intestines are fine and well working. No sign of diarrhea yet, called the Banjul belly. So no need for dipers so far, eventhough we drink some of the unbottled water, eat salad, fruits and mainly order things we never heard of.
The Accomadation:

The hotel room has not been cleaned for a long timeand the Majestic had existed for a very long time. It actually more faded than ever existed. The sheer existence of some uncommon features like a bathroom mirror and a dust bin are a proof of better days. I guess once built it had been brandnew . The broken toilet seat seems to be a cultural basic around here. the toilet brush you wouldnt wanna get close to is leaning in the corner like a magical artefact destined to keep your sphincter from working. Bad Voodoo, my friend. Brums and water were never allowed to enter this room at any time. The soap is inseperable from the sink. The curtain dividing the toilet from the rest is hung up on a wooden stick with a nail that shoots down on you like a Mamba every time you pass it.The door's locking mechanismwill not survive annother week. Within the room there is nothing, so nothing to describe but the mattress flattened by tons of human flesh, so more an illusion than support. All that helps to prevent sleeping on the wooden frame is stretching out like a Jesus with stilted legs to four corners to the four corners.

Postscriptum:
If you wanna avoid the accomadation part in Bamako go to Hotel Tamana, clean and spotless; double the price but ten times worth it:

Postpostscriptum:
We had a ride through Bamako today with the taxi. I have seen slums in Calcutta and Bombay but I its not comparable somehow. I was seriously shocked by the feelings I got. Its kind of a brutal poverty that i have not seen in Guatemala, India, Cuba or anywhere else. It's a hopelessness far beyond hoplessness. This is NO GOOD. Thinking of seven more weeks here in Westafrica I am a little scared. Its getting to me heavyly - not only here in the capitals slums, but Kidira on the border of Mali\Senegal, in Janjanbureh\Gambia and so on and on. People take it with a certain wit as they got no chance to do anything else that helps better. I was told before, but being within is something else. As they say here: It's not easy but it's easy !!!
The colors are as intense as nowhere else I have been before and same thing for roughness and toughness.
Really strange things and really funny things happening almost every day. Two weeks feel like much much more.
Just one of the stories here: Leaving Gambia to Senegal we crossed at a pretty unknown border. I think it hadnt seen tourists yet. Soldiers having tea under a Baobab tree with their wifes and kids. Reggae bluring all over the seen. The Immigration officer of the Gambian side in charge is dressed in a Basketball shirt and pretty astonished seeing us coming in with the Minibus. He is friendly and curious but once he figures out by the stamp in our passport that we didnt stay more than 4 days in Gambia he refuses to let us go. He "threatens" us to send us back to the capital Banjul to see more of the country. Trying to talk our way out we pretend that Peter is some kind of official in Germany working with refugees and as Mr.Officer wants nothing more than going to Germany we agree to give him a vocal invitation and we exchange telephon numbers. We pass easyly. System africaine !!! We slowly learn our lessons. Gambia: you just talk until problems pass away. Best system for Senegal was: Speak very little French, just to bring your point across, but not understand what the otherone is saying. Smile stupidly and never show any urge or real interest. And very helpful: get a Senegal soccer shirt with the name Djouff (number 11) on it. He is the Bad Boy and people will like you. For Mali a little bit of both, though today walking towards the slums it felt like our system might fail. We will see.