The fourth night of the festival, and we had only managed to gain entrance to the free concert on the first night. Jonathan and Blai’s military friend had not come through with getting us in, and climbing over a shoddy bathroom looked like the only unpromising option for sneaking in. I still wasn’t opposed to paying for one of the last two nights to see either Femi Kuti or Ammadou and Mariam. Jonathan who is not a fan of either, especially Kuti, was not interested, and Blai, who has never paid to get into a music festival (though he has been to many through…whatever means were necessary), wasn’t going to start now.
Hitchhiking to town, we got the attention of a young guy on a bike. It turned out to be Bako a moto-taxi driver that had given us a ride a few days before. He told us he would take all of us on his bike. No, it wasn’t one of the ubiquitous cheap Chinese mopeds. It was a cheap Chinese Yamaha knockoff. He insisted that the bike could fit four young young men, no problem. This man was as reckless as we were! So I was hanging off the back, half my butt hovering above racing asphalt, my right ankle getting burned and stained black by the exhaust pipe. We swerved all over the road as Bako tried to keep it balanced with the long load. It stalled repeatedly, but we eventually made it to the turnoff to his house. He invited us in, so we decided to take a look at Chez Bako. We met his mother and grandmother before he showed us his room. It was tiny, but unlike most people, he had tons of possessions crammed into every corner. Speaker equipment, a photo album, trinkets, music, etc. He told us that other than working as a moto-taxi driver he was a DJ and barber. After checking out the photo album and promising future visits, we were on our way to hitch the rest of the way in to town.
We headed to a restaurant where we had a hot lead on some discount concert tickets. We met with the waiter who had said he could get us one night admission for $6. He started making phone calls, but looked nervous. When he started hesitating, then asking for more than he had said the night before, we got annoyed, and took him for a scammer. He went back and said for sure he could get us the tickets. He rounded up a couple of younger guys, and we were told to follow them. As I expected, they were leading us to the main ticket booth, not to some shady ticket bootlegger, as I had hoped. The boys looked nervous as they asked for our money. I gave them the $12 for Jonathan and I, and it wasn’t until later that Jonathan informed me that he had already given them his money, and so, basically I paid twice. The plan was simply for them to buy the wristbands at the local price (foreigner price was about $40), and then transfer the bands to us. The boys didn’t know what they were doing. They didn’t even know that we shouldn’t be at the ticket booth with them. When the came back with the wristbands, they intended to give them to us right there, with everyone, including security there to watch. Of course, we tried to get out of there before the boys could give us the bands, and pulled them along with us. The security spotted us and came our way. We didn’t look back, just increased our pace. They started to yell, but didn’t seem willing to run. As soon as we turned a corner, we ran, pulled the boys through the market maze of souvenir and clothing booths.
The transfer didn’t go smoothly. Of course, this is how the wristbands are designed, but we were too anxious. The gum I used to reaffix them didn’t look that convincing. I knew that confidence and good timing alone would get us in. When Blai arrived, he laughed at our laughable attempt at putting on these wristbands. He was a veteran of this kind of thing, and he doubted we would make it through. The plan was that two of us would get in, one would take off their band, the other would leave and give the band to Blai so we could all get in for $12.
Jonathan went first. When he didn’t come back after ten minutes, I assumed he had gotten through. My turn to go through the security gauntlet. I walked through the crowds before arriving to the multiple gates of security. I timed my pace to go through at the same time as small groups, and just blend in. The first three didn’t look too hard at our bands, and I felt I was home free. Then all of a sudden, before the last checkpoint, the crowd around me seemed to dissolve, and I had to face the final gate solo. With the guilty part of my wristband properly oriented, I confidently made eye contact with the guard, held up my wrist and walked through confidently. He smiled, I smiled. Then after passing him, he yelled at me to stop. I pretended not to hear him. With no crowd coming through with me, he could afford to run after me. He grabbed my wrist, telling me I had a fake wristband. I pretended not to understand him, and responded in English, telling him to let me in. He quickly grabbed a knife from his pocket, and casually cut the band from my wrist and calmly escorted me out.
Back outside, I tried to get in touch with Jonathan. He wasn’t answering his phone. He eventually came back out, saying he had gotten in and was waiting for me. We formulated a new plan. He would get back in, and we would rendezvous near a secluded fence and he would throw the wristband over to me. On his first attempt to get back in, he was stopped, with his faulty wristband, but he ran out before they could remove it. His second attempt proved successful, or so we assumed, because we never saw him again. I tried texting and calling him repeatedly to no avail. Worst of all, he had all my wine sachets in his bag. An hour later, all I got from him was a text saying, “Mate of way, I am titing”. I still have no idea what this meant, but I took it to mean, have fun OUTSIDE the Femi Kuti concert loser! I wandered around the outside of the concert angrily, thinking about how he was in the concert of the same singer that he would complain about every time his songs would come on our boom box.
The Lebanese wine sachet shop was closed, so Blai and I tried to find some bar. We didn’t want to be around the hookers at Terminus, or the happy-go-lucky crowd at Alphabet, so we tried somewhere new called Espace Kora, that supposedly had live music. Bad choice. The initial shock of an intolerable (and I am very tolerant) sound system, mixed with a singer who had no idea that the louder he screamed into the mic the more distorted it would get, was only the beginning. Minutes later, the nearly empty bar was invaded by pasty middle-aged tourists. They were immediately summoned by the singer to the middle of the floor, having them dance in circles to the awful music. They looked thrilled for their exciting cultural experience. We guzzled our beers and left asap.
The only option was to make our way toward the after party. I was actually in such a fowl mood that I wanted to go home. Blai felt bad, and insisted that I needed to dance. He even bought me a beer when we got there, which I really needed after having my wine sachets commandeered by Jonathan. Just as I was getting into the dancing mood, Jonathan called, saying he was on his way. He sounded in a little too good of a mood.
He rampaged into the after party’s packed dance floor with no control or concept of anyone else’s presence, let alone personal space. It was just he and the music, free to revel in his oh so wonderful night. I demanded a wine sachet from him. There was only one left. As he danced he blabbered on about how great it had been. How he had managed to get to the front of the crowd, where everyone was dancing out of the river, and a guy he was dancing with had almost gotten thrown out after trying to climb into one of the decorative pirogues next to the stage. He had even met a pretty Dutch girl, which of course does not make me jealous as I hold an opinion of the Dutch on par with that of Nigel Powers. I could not take his gloating and obnoxious out of control dancing, and offers to buy me beer, so I silently slipped out of the crowd, and headed home. Maybe it was childish, and immature, and I should have been happy that one of us had gotten to enjoy it. I could have been mature and just enjoyed what was left of the night. But we were all strung so thin from this week that emotions were no longer rational.
To top off the rough night, was unsuccessful in getting a ride from a passing car, and walked the entire 4 km back home. After a couple weeks on the river, my feet had gone soft, and since hitting land had taken quite a beating with all this walking. They were sore and blistered by the time I landed on the mat that night.
The roof top we tended to sleep on when we had to be in Bamako
Me at the market that we set up when Blai sold his truck. We had lots to sell and the bargaining was fierce and the crowd was unruly.
Our Togolese friend, "Foufou", with his son Max in Koulikoro.
Fatima, the best cook in Koulikoro. Her rice with peanut sauce kept us alive for our couple of weeks in that town. The love was mutual.
I pole from the front of the boat, while Jonathan gets busy on the honey wine.
Brand new pink pants in Koulikoro.
Our camp next to our boat in Koulikoro. Tents, from left to right: Joey, Jonathan, Blai/Fura.
Walking to the bus station after buying supplies in Bamako.
No comments:
Post a Comment