February 2, 2011
The five days we spent in Segou duing the Festival Sur Le Niger were an unspeakable blur. It was a constant mess of hitchhiking, dancing, drinking, attempts at sneaking into concerts, hooker-dodging, early morning arrivals and at least one threat of arrest. Unlike most of the foreigners there for the festival, we were not diplomats, Peace Corps workers, on vacation, students, or volunteers. We came on a boat with a pirate mentality, and fully aimed to storm the beaches of Segou and live with no barriers or rules, as we had on the river for the past 12 days, or several months for that matter. We were high on our pride of making it to Segou on our own boat, by our own power. The festival was our wedding cake that we would smear all over each other’s faces and anyone else that got too close. Not many of the foreigners could keep up with us, but the thousands of Africans from Mali and all over West Africa were right in step. They truly made everything for us, and it would not have been possible without them.
We were staying about six or seven km. outside of the center of Segou, where all the festivities and concerts took place. The city has no buses, only moto-taxis (not unlike auto-rickshaws in India or Tuk-Tuks in Thailand), but they rarely came far enough out of town to be useful to us, especially at night. Taxis of course were out of the question, so we took joy in hitching back and forth at all hours of the day and night. Blai was aggressive, and would jump up and down, stepping into the road, yelling “Centre Ville!” almost demanding rides from people. Usually it worked, and we would chase down the car, or motorbike and we were on our way.
On the first night, I headed in before Blai and Jonathan and got a ride on a motorbike within a couple minutes. I wandered around, enjoying the throbbing life of the town on the first big day of the festival. I had been to Segou in early January with Lise, and it seemed almost boring to me. It was quiet, sprawling, and the numerous tourists were inevitably taking Centrum Silver, and were hanging onto guides. There was little energy in the streets other than the touts trying to sell trinkets and boat tours. This time, we tried a new technique to avoid the Tuaregs that wouldn’t stop following you with their jewelry and knives: running. No matter what you said or did, they would not stop following, however, we found that they would not run after you if you just took off in a random direction. It seems harsh, but when I looked back at them, they were always laughing right along with us. If they were going to ignore the social norms in response to, “no, thanks. Please, I don’t want any. Please, go away,” I was fully prepared to ignore the social norm of not running from somebody unless they are a danger to you.
I grabbed a few wine sachets (yes, bags of wine that taste like red-flavored paint thinner sold for $.40 each) from the Lebanese booze store, and started roaming the streets, waiting for Jonathan and Blai. I happened upon a sandwich stand filled with half a dozen Peace Corps volunteers. They were identifiable as Americans with their Nalgene bottles (yes, we are the only country with them), and as Peace Corps Volunteers as they were all girls in their twenties. I exchanged a few words with them, but didn’t say much. It was a weird feeling to be around American girls for the first time in months and they made me feel uneasy. In the past, I would normally have denied accusations that Americans are loud and obnoxious, but this was a bit of a wake up call.
Jonathan and Blai arrived, with a four-gallon jug motor oil jug in tow. Fortunately, though, the oil jug was filled with millet beer that they had procured from Jean Baptiste, a Christian friend that works at the hotel we were sleeping in front of. They explained that they had gotten a ride into town with some high-ranking military officer and that he said he could get us into the concerts for free. This night, however, was free anyway, but he assured that for the next four nights, which cost something like $30 each, we just needed to give him a ring and he would help us out.
Armed with millet beer and wine sachets, we stormed the gates of the concert. Jonathan tried to avoid being searched, thinking that his oil jug of booze would be a problem. They caught him though, and searched him anyway. During the search, the jug had turned over and, with a faulty cap, the beer started spilling into his shoulder bag. The security officer didn’t seem to notice and we were clear. Jonathan has a bad track record with tragic spills in his filthy homemade shoulder bag. This is usually due to the fact that everything we seem to buy is sold in a sachets, and is frequently liquid or paste, and the other fact that Jonathan never seems to close his knives that he also carries in the bag. Wine, peanut butter, and gin are the most frequently perpetrators of mess in his ill-fated bag. It was originally made from a rice sack and given as a gift to him in Papua New Guinea. It developed holes throughout the months, which also caused him to lose several prized items, including his favorite knife and my flute. He eventually replaced the bag part with material from a pink sheet of Blai’s that said “Buenas Noches”. This was later partially burned in a fire, and he patched it with some cloth from a Rambo t-shirt he found. The bag, which now said, “Buenas Noches Rambo” with a hot picture of Sly himself, was legendary, but still disgusting.
The concert featured Desert Blues artists from around the region. This genre of music was the type that Jonathan loathed more than any, but even he got into the spirit of it. There was a magic that came from watching the performers dance as their billowing robes flowed in the wind and intermingled with the excess cloth from their turbans. Surprisingly, there didn’t seem to be any foreigners in sight. We were surrounded by a bunch of well-dressed Africans, who would get up and dance occasionally to the calm and rhythmic sounds of the north. By the time the star of the night, Vieux Farka Toure, the son of Africa’s greatest guitarist, Ali Farka Toure, was on stage, we were all up and moving. He is one of my favorite Malian artists, and I had missed him when he was in Seattle (the $10 ticket price suddenly became $18 with fees), so I was thrilled when he played my favorite song of his.
Our view of the show. The stage was actually right there on the river. Photo Credit: Blai Coulibaly
After the concert, we made our way to the beer garden next to the concert. The beer was surprisingly cheap and there was a mix of oddball characters that we would continue to see throughout the festival. There was a girl from Quebec who almost incited violence in our group when she bashed Jonathan’s home province of Manitoba. I told her my friend was from Manitoba, but apparently she didn’t notice that I was pointing to Jonathan and that “my friend” was actually sitting next to me. She responded curtly, “oh, great, rednecks and praries,” before moving on to talk with Blai. Being dreadlocked rebels with piercings, they found lots to talk about, as Jonathan stewed about what he had heard. He kept saying quietly, “I’m gonna kill her”, between sips of millet beer from the oil jug. When he finally confronted her, she completely denied saying such things, and he quickly forgot about killing her, and began to flirt instead. She quickly moved back to Blai (proud that she could speak Spanish with him) and Jonathan and I began plotting against them. I told Jonathan I would give him $20 if he could manage to tie two of their dreadlocks together without them noticing. Before he could try, an Frenchman in his 60’s in some weird furry getup and, if I remember correctly, a Viking hat, and most definitely a bull’s horn, which he was drinking an unknown substance from, burst onto the scene, blabbering in French and English, forcing his drinking horn upon us. Of course we took sips, and it may or may not have been millet beer mixed with actual beer. He sat down next to Blai and the Quebec girl, and Jonathan and I saw the golden opportunity. This old man had about 4 dreadlocks left on his balding head, and I offered $50 if he could tie their heads together. He gave it a valiant attempt, but he did not manage to get past the Quebec girls’ paranoid looks.
The beer garden closed and we were forced to try and figure out a way back to our place. Luckily there was a festival going on and there were enough cars on the road for us to hitchhike with. We managed to get a ride from a benevolent man with a car who took us all the way back to the hotel. We rolled our mat out on the dirt and slept, hoping the owner would tolerate us just one more night.
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