Who knows what you are thinking right now, but hopefully that potentially incriminating clickbaity headline at least got your attention.

I am not going to convince you that this is remotely safe. It’s not. But it is a reliably joyful activity that has become a foundational part of our relationship. This activity is none other than riding a relatively low-power Chinese motorbike (locally known as a jakarta).

I had already long enjoyed riding such motorbikes. Andre would always see me on the bike and ask to hop on. At first, we did “tours” of our Bamako neighborhood, staying on the unpaved backroads where the traffic is the odd taxi and a handful of errant ruminants. Then we started riding to The Sleeping Camel, where we would also cruise around the back roads and spend time on the riverside.

There was a loose rule about not crossing the goudron that bisects Badalabougou and crosses the river. That didn’t last long. One day we crossed the goudron and went for a sneaky pizza at Palais de la Culture. Then we went a bit further to the grocery store. I became very good at rationalizing the more elaborate missions and the additional distance. These were just short weekend trips within a few kilometers of our house on mostly quiet streets. I would never take him to school during rush hour traffic.

Then the school year started and I decided I would take Andre on the moto for the first day. Just the first day. Djene would pick him up in the afternoon in a taxi. Once he got home his first question was, “are you taking me on the moto tomorrow?” So I decided I would take him for the first week. You know where this is going.

Outside of a handful of rainy days, I took Andre to school on the motorbike every day. I often picked him up as well. I don’t know what the risk calculus should have been. The chances of something going wrong undoubtedly went up with every trip. You can tell yourself whatever you want about DOT certified helmets and being a safe driver. Bamako traffic has a certain entropy that will catch up with you on a long enough timeline.

But let me dwell on the positives for a moment. Andre rides in front of me on the bike. Our heads are a few centimeters apart. It’s almost like we have the same pair of eyes. We observe quietly. We talk about our plans for the day. We tell stories. We describe the dreams we had last night. And sometimes we create worlds.

At 7:40 AM we are riding through “bumpy town.” Andre divided up our daily commute into various “towns.” You can guess what Bumpy Town was like. We arrive at the first obese policeman (there were typically 3 on the trip) who would invariably create a monstrous traffic jam at the Sabalibougou intersection. At some point Andre decided that all the overweight policemen in Bamako were employed by Dr. Claw (too much to go into here, but short version: we went down a youtube rabbit hole that led us to Inspector Gadget and Andre was enamored).

Then on the main road to Bacodjicoroni we cruise past Nosemask, a school crossing guard that blew his whistle until breathless, a wadded up cloth mask cinched tight around his nose. Nosemask was benevolent and always assured us safe passage. He was not working for Dr. Claw.

Not far from Nosemask, we see Macho Miguel hauling a trash cart with three donkeys. The donkeys were of course robotic and planted with explosives.

I don’t want to go too deep into our abilities – well, Andre’s ability – to manifest these characters, but we had just watched an Inspector Gadget episode where Dr. Claw had employed Macho Miguel, the leader of an evil mariachi band, to find a Mayan artifact (the emerald duck) that could unlock an ancient weapon. The morning after, before we got on the bike, Andre said we would need to watch out for Macho Miguel. I asked, how would we know it’s Macho Miguel? Andre said he would be wearing a cowboy hat. That morning we saw a dude hauling a trash cart with three donkeys. He was wearing a cowboy hat. Believe me, this is an unusual sight in Bamako.

Beyond heart to heart chats and world creation, our 25 minute ride was also an immersive Bamako experience. We befriended fruit ladies and roadside gas vendors. We joked with other jakarta drivers at stoplights. We stumbled upon Guinean carpenters while taking shortcuts up and over the hills of the University of Bamako.

We woke up every day looking forward to this adventure. Having once experienced the Washington, DC rush hour, with all the pre-work dread baked into a dehumanizing cascade of fluorescent lighting, overcrowded trains and a palpable force field of anxiety, it almost felt unfair to be this excited for a morning commute. Of course, death and disfigurement were the possible tradeoffs.

I still don’t know how to reconcile this joyful experience with the risk that comes along with it. When we go to the states for a visit, my daughter is in a car seat and my son is in a booster seat wherever we go. Here, on more hazardous roads with medical facilities poorly equipped to deal with trauma, we are riding a scooter together.

And just to add another layer to this, I regularly provide very conservative travel guidance to our hotel clients in Mali. I don’t trust the security situation more than a few kilometers outside of Bamako. I have more than once tried to talk friends out of visiting locales that were both nearby and already familiar to them. And yet, here I am doing something far riskier. With my child no less.

For now, I’ve just stopped thinking about it, which is arguably even more irresponsible. We now ride the motorbike together in Senegal. To be fair, there is less traffic.

Other parents, how do you navigate things like this? And for the non-parents, I am still seeking guidance regarding my barbershop situation.