191 - Sand Diggers, Fetish Extravaganza, and Bamako 911 (Bamako, Mali)
Photo by Leslie Peralta
MALI BECAME SOMETHING OF A GRIND. It was hard going for reasons that will become clear. I fell way behind on my journal as the days wore on and downtime in between was scarce. I took just enough notes to jog my memories when we had time to relax. Quality took a hit. No doubt about it, but I still managed to capture my thoughts and moments for posterity. Not for others, but for me. I wanted, no needed, to remember as much as I could. We should all keep a journal, travel or otherwise. Though my blog has been invaluable to me over the years since, I couldn’t be bothered to keep it up when my feet hit the ground. This is a shame. Don’t be me.
The rest of our time in Mali mirrored the trip there—degrees of shitty. There were interesting experiences along the way, but by and large, the visit was disappointing. Our reason for venturing to Mali was the Festival in the Desert, something we were really looking forward to until travel through the country depleted our motivation beyond redemption. We couldn’t take anymore, so we pressed the eject button. Getting out was frustrating as getting in… frown.
We arrived in Bamako after a two-day bus-a-thon in a sour mood, then spent days leap-frogging from hotel to hotel in search of peace and tranquility before landing at the Sleeping Camel, a wonderful respite on the edge of the chaos that is Bamako. We spent eight days getting our bearings and planning a foray into the interior.
Mali isn’t cheap. As one might expect, there are two economies: local and tourist. Accommodation? Overpriced. Food? Overpriced. Cultural tour? Overpriced. Everything related to tourists? Overpriced. If you’re an affluent French tourist with limited world travel experience on a package vacation, you might disagree. Many seemed to be enjoying their time.
Our first outing brought us thirty kilometers downstream from Bamako on the Niger River, a quirky side trip that proved to be fascinating. When our guide (Ibrahim) described it, I had no idea what we were in for. His accent was difficult to decipher. We were going on an afternoon boat trip to see some people engage in some activity somewhere. Sign me up.
Sand. A shit ton of it. Sand from some parts of the Niger is ideal for construction (a la bricks) and, therefore, worth beaucoup bucks. One lorry load can be worth tens of thousands of dollars (according to Ibrahim). In the dying sun, we stood on the Niger’s shore and lost ourselves in the chaotic frenzy of the largest proverbial sandbox I’ve ever seen. Fifteen kilometers away, workers dig it out of the river and pile it into wooden pinnaces (boats) for transport. The boats park on the shore so everyone and their mother can help carry the cargo to trucks waiting nearby. When I say “everyone and their mother,” take that literally. Men, women, and children scramble around like drones programmed for a specific task. Being there is being in the way. Having small children is no excuse for lethargy. Strap them to your back, or let them play in the mud next to your feet. The show must go on. And it does… relentlessly. Amazing.
Photo by Leslie Peralta
Got a fetish? No? Well, I can tell you where to get one. Try the fetish market in Bamako. And by fetish, I mean an “inanimate object worshiped for its supposed magical powers or because it is considered to be inhabited by a spirit,” not the penchant your neighbor has for munchkin amputee strippers. Naughty. Some objects include just about any petrified, mummified, or stuffed animal found in or around West Africa and their associated body parts. Many were still in the process of decay. Yummy.
The stall vendors weren’t the friendliest bunch. Most were downright hostile when they saw our cameras. They refused to allow photos without compensation via a purchase (all stocked up on monkey heads, thank you) or an outright gratuity. I couldn’t bring myself to bribe locals for photos, so we settled for a few sub rosa shutter clicks. Salacious.
One night in Bamako, we checked out Le Diplomate, a bar owned by Toumani Diabate, one of Mali's most famous musicians. Although we didn’t witness his expert kora skills, I did have the opportunity to watch Leslie dance amid some rather rambunctious gyrating Malian men. Sassy. They tried to drag me up there, but I only shake my ass for cash.
On the way back to our hotel, we had the pleasure of being stopped by traffic police. (Or was it a bunch of yahoos in costume?) The taxi driver pulled over at the behest of said yahoos and waited while a jolly, beret-wearing officer asked me for passports. We didn’t have them. To make matters worse, I forgot to bring a copy, something I always do. Mr. Beret was not pleased. I thought he’d give us a hard time accompanied by a stern warning and send us on our way. I thought wrong.
I soon realized they didn’t pull us over for shits and giggles. I exited the vehicle and explained that our passports were at the hotel and that I’d be happy to wait while Leslie retrieved them via taxi. No dice. Mr. Beret kept reiterating that traveling without passports was “no good.” My reply was, "Okaaay, so how about you let my friend get them?” This option was “no good.” Uh-huh.
I was starting to get the picture. I mentioned the word money to Mr. Beret and the newly arrived Mr. Grumpy Face. They balked at the suggestion. Now, I was confused and irritated… but not frightened. Why? There was something undeniably comical about the whole affair. They wanted to see our passports. We didn't have them. Could we get them? No. Did they want money? No. My answer to the question as to how to proceed was always answered with a “no good.” As this unfolded, our driver demanded payment, so he could skedaddle. He expected me to pay him, so he could leave us there with no means of transport? Ain't no fucking way, hombre!
Then came threats of incarceration. Super. I probably should’ve been frightened at this point. I reacted by feigning terror in a preposterously understated voice. Had their English been more advanced, they would’ve recognized my sarcasm. They did not. I threatened to call the US Embassy. They threatened to let me. I suddenly realized I'd neglected to enter the number in my phone, also something I normally do. So much for bluffing… dummy.
This went on for a bit. I wasn't happy. Beret and Grumpy weren't happy and becoming progressively less so. The taxi driver wasn’t happy. It was melancholy all around. Enter Leslie, or as I like to call her, “The Peralta.” Arguing with me was perfectly acceptable, but facing down a cute western female redhead was a turd of a different texture. They didn’t know what to do with her incessant cajoling and pestering. I shut my mouth and enjoyed the show. She was dauntless.
“My friend can stay here and I will go get our passports. It’s just across the bridge. Right over there. Why can't I go? I don't understand. Why are you doing this? It's right there. I don't get it. I visit your country and you treat me like this. How about if I just go get our passports? Please? Why not? It's right across the bridge. Over there. Can I go get our passports? Why are you doing this to us? We come to visit your beautiful country and you do this? Why? Our passports are right over there.”
Mr. Beret relented and let us move on. (Lesson learned? Don’t fuck with a drunk redhead.) Forty-five minutes of my life I’ll never get back. The next day, I discovered this is common. I met a driver who told me he often takes back streets to avoid the hassle. It’s not unheard of for them to follow through on their threats and throw folks in jail overnight, or until they cough up some cash. He also said that although a bribe is their aim, they behave as if the idea of such is an insult to their honor. I guess you almost have to beg them to accept the money so they can save face. Good to know. Here’s a pro tip. They rarely have vehicles, so you’re better off blowing through the checkpoints. Might as well scream, “Go fuck yourselves” for good measure. Supposedly, you can also pay a taxi driver to facilitate the deal. If it had been me and a male friend, I’m almost certain I’d have spent a night filming an episode of Prison Bitch: Mali Edition. Super.
“We spent our first few days in Mali moving from guesthouse to guesthouse, before we landed at The Sleeping Camel (third times a charm). Bamako moves at a much faster pace than Nouakchott, so it took some adjusting. My first impression of the city could be summed up using three words: noise, congestion, and pollution. If the list continued, ‘expensive’ would probably come next, for this is not a bargain destination by any means.
On our second day in town we were introduced to a guide by the name of Abraham. We immediately took a liking to him, because of his sweet demeanor. He currently resides in Bamako, but arranges treks through the Dogon region, as that used to be his home. We discussed the possibilities of arranging a trip together, but decided we needed more time. Dogon was one of the main reasons for coming to Mali, so we wanted to get it right; that and we couldn’t bear the thought of ending up with another Ahmed.
Abraham offered to put together a pinasse trip up the Niger River to see a fishing village and sand-gathering worksite. It sounded like a pleasant way to spend an evening, as well as a great way to test his guide abilities, so we gladly accepted. We watched as Malian’s of all ages, shapes, and sizes collected along the riverbank to shower, wash clothes, fish, and swim.
When we arrived at the site, 30km downstream, we were taken back by the scene laid out before us. Hundreds, if not thousands, were hard at work, collecting and transporting sand into boats and large trucks. The sand is used to make bricks for local construction, and is in high demand, which explained the flurry of activity. Men, women, and children were everywhere, performing back-breaking work in the unforgiving sun. Some were knee deep in sand, others in water. Mothers had infants strapped to their backs while balancing buckets on their heads; buckets weighing far more than I do.
I stood there, feet sinking into the burnt-red sand, amazed. As much as I’d like to think I know what it’s like to work hard, I don’t – not like these people do, anyway. My version of hard work involves staring at a computer from a comfortable chair, using an ergonomical keyboard, sipping hot coffee, at a desk filled with supplies of my preference, inside of an air-conditioned building. Witnessing that type of manual labor, superior work-ethic, and dedication to providing for your loved ones is sobering.
The truth is, I’ll never know what it’s like to work half as hard as they do, and I sincerely hope the images and feelings I experienced that night, stick with me forever. I have a lot to be thankful for and chances are you do too. The next time I complain about a slow commute, long day, or the jerk who stole my parking spot, smack me. Trust me; you’ll be doing me a much-needed favor.”
Leslie Peralta, “A Site To See” — Soledad: Notes From My Travels
“Feeling a little under the weather lately? Trouble brewing at home? How about those post-holiday blues? Have no fear, because a witchdoctor is near. Whatever it is you need, a quick fix is just a monkey head, rabbit foot, or lion’s tail away. Just swing by the fetish stalls near Bamako’s seedy central market for all your potion making, voodoo, juju needs. I wish I was kidding, but sadly, I’m not.
West Africa is considered the birth place of voodoo and a host of other black-magic type practices. Walk through these markets and you’ll see a wide array of rotting animal heads, organs, skins, hair, and so on; it isn’t for the faint at heart, and no, it’s not for tourists either – the locals take this very seriously. Pictures are a no-no, but I managed to sneak one anyway. As usual, shame on me.
We spent the afternoon wandering around the dusty stalls, winding in and out of alleyways, just trying to take in the sights, sounds, and smells of the city. I can’t be certain, but it definitely felt like our presence wasn’t welcome by most. It felt as if everyone’s eyes were on us, watching our every move, and if we reached for our cameras, we received the shaking of heads and fingers from all directions. We later learned that Malians are very concerned with privacy and most assume you’re a journalist if totting large cameras around, like we do.
After a long day, we both felt deserving of a night out. Bamako has a thriving music scene with Le Diplomate leading the way. Grammy Award winning Kora player, Toumani Diabate, along with his symmetric orchestra, play there regularly. The place filled up quickly with locals and travelers alike. We laughed. We danced. We drank too much. We hopped into a taxi sometime between 12-1am, and by this time, the police had setup roadblocks at all major intersections throughout the city.
These ‘routine’ stops are used to extract bribes from foreigners, as well as wealthy Malians. Our charge was not carrying our passports (we didn’t want to risk losing them while out on the town). We went back and forth with the officer for a good twenty minutes. We explained to the officer that we knew our rights and that we hadn’t committed a crime – strike one. Rich offered to get out and wait while the driver took me to fetch our passports – strike two. We eventually threatened to call our embassy – strike three. He responded by telling us to get out of the taxi and into his van, headed for jail; we said no.
Instead of letting Rich do all the talking, I piped up, flying off the handle. I was intoxicated and therefore, held nothing back. The officer didn’t know what to do with a young, over-the-top, loud mouthed, little redheaded American girl, such as myself. Much to my surprise, putting on a scene worked, and he let us go with a firm warning. Rich later admitted that if I had been someone else, he probably would have told me to shut-up; I laughed and said, ‘you’re welcome’. He hates it when I do that. Next time I might just save myself and let him learn the hard way. You got that little Richie? Yeah, I thought so. Get it. Got it. Good.”
Leslie Peralta, “Here I Come To Save The Day” — Soledad: Notes From My Travels