This is Radio Mali

On a rain-soaked day, after a tumultuous journey through 3 West African airports over the best part of a night and a morning, we have arrived at the town they call Bamako. Ali Farka Toure’s Bamako, the bars and the cafes where Manu Chao, Ry Cooder and a host of other luminaries from the world of music have played and recorded at. The Bamako that’s the other end of the Dakar Rally, the Bamako at the bank of the Niger river, the Bamako that is the capital of the country that towards its North-East extremities has a place that is as close to nowhere as is known to man. A place called Timbuktoo.

This is Radio Mali. Turn it on, leave it on.

Je ne parle pas francais...

Please monsieur, I do not speak French.

Having learnt my first meaningful French phrase after spending a lifetime dodging about with ce va’s and bonjour’s and merci boucoup’s, I was feeling particularly vulnerable on my first foray into Le Francophone Afrique, despite the good fortune of having the company of KO, my multilingual (French/English/Others) colleague for support. We had spent the better part of the night negotiating our way through myriad West African airports, embarking at Accra Kotoka on a Virgin Nigeria flight, and for some strange reason, flying all the way out to Dakar, capital of Senegal, before flying halfway back and upwards to Mali. The journey had been eventful, to say the least.

Highlights would include spending 5 hours in utero in a glass cubby-hole known as the transit lounge of the Dakar airport, where some Senegalese officials had confiscated my passport for safe-keeping while I waited in transit. Not to mention the health officer we encountered when we touched down in Mali, who demanded to see our Yellow Fever Vaccination certificates. We didn’t have them, alas, and were promptly marched into a room bearing the title - Medical Officer. Once inside, Mr. Medical Officer proceeded to light up a long-tipped cigarette. Right there, in the middle of Mali International Airport!! Me and KO were too bizarred out for a couple of minutes to react properly, wild thoughts running through our heads no doubt... injections from unsterilized needles administered by strange Touareg-looking Malian Health Officer, Marlboro dangling from lips... fortunately, it turned out okay, as he merely produced a tattered pamphlet which listed fines for different offences. Our’s came in at 18000 CFA’s, and after some skillful bargaining (KO), we managed to wrangle ourselves out of disaster area, and into the welcoming arms of a bunch of dudes in Nestle T-Shirts, and from there-on, full corporate fortification.

Purquois une brand essence?

My first Only French workshop is not the disaster I expected it would be. Thankfully, KO is an articulate and effective translator, and the (very few) instances I have needed to speak, it has been fairly easy to do so. I am sitting in a room full of Nestle managers from different countries across West Africa, who are flinging powerpoints at each other with unerring accuracy. Thankfully, everything is in French, so I can conveniently keep scribbling the mineral water bottle label literature on my notepad... eu minerale naturelle Tombouctou 0.5 litre... recommendee pour toute la familie... We are in this room to display our good intentions, and represent to our gentle hosts that we are not afraid of sending Indian people into African boardrooms where business is conducted in French.

Consommateur is always the king!

Last evening had turned out fun. Soon after arriving, we had walked downtown. Not that there is much town to walk in Bamako, although the Grande Hotel is located strategically, amidst tree-lined military barracks on either side, crumbling yet majestic colonial structures from the French era... the post office, the ministries, and culminating into the piece de resistance, the Grand Musee De Mali.

Spread over a large area of over a hectare or more, the Musee is located at one end of Bamako town, away from the river. A cliff rises from within the museum premises, and along the foothills, there are interesting pieces of installation art. We spotted a dinosaur family, a miniature of the mosque at Djenne, a life-size bush taxi, sculpted with meticulous precision that looks deceptively life-like at first glance. We would have entered the Museum, but unfortunately our ploy to pass me off as a Ghanaian (and therefore eligible to an entry fee of 500 CFA as opposed to 2500 CFA that foreigners had to pay) did not work out. KO could not deal with this, got violent and all, and so we were reluctantly leaving, when an enterprising Bamako taxicab man convinced us to jump into his car. The fact that it was a good looking (though beat-up) Mercedes Benz may have had something to do with it. Soon, we were climbing steeply up the cliff, and shortly, reached the summit.

The view atop Musee hill was breathtaking. More so because directly below the cliff, an Olympic-size track and field stadium opened up unexpectedly, giving us a helicopters-eye view of the majestic stadium below. We had turned into eagles, flying over the Niger delta... the sprawl of Bamako stretched out below, the Musee, the Stadium (where 3 days ago the Ghanaian Black Stars had put paid to Malian World Cup ambitions 2-0). Further behind, the Niger river bisected the town into two. As far as the eye could see, the land lay flat, and the vegetation sparse, a prelude to the harsher Sahelian desert that stretches North. But from that vantage point, that afternoon, harsh desert was still some distance away... the air was cool and clean, markedly different from the heavily polluted town below. It felt good to be there. We lingered there for quite some time. Finally, the sun tore through the clouds, and we decided to head back to the comforts of our hotel before we head out for the evening.

The Azalai Grand Hotel of Bamako deserves a worthy mention here. Situated centrally, the Grand is registered as a Four Star property, and is part of the Casablanca-based Azalai Group of hotels. However, in more ways than one, its features are ‘deluxe’ as opposed to ‘superior’... Italian marble and zero-volume opera in the toilets that segue into livelier Creole sounds as you move from toilets to lobby areas, for example. High-speed internet access in rooms, wi-fi across, well-appointed salon, antique shop, well-stocked bookshop, travel agency, it’s all here, and discreetly done. One killer feature that we enjoyed- 2 swimming pools in the premises... the main one, and then, in the extended grounds which also houses tennis courts and sports facilities, an identical-sized second pool. We began to understand why this works really well on our first afternoon itself, when about 45 kids spent the best part of the day splashing-sploshing noisily. But neatly tucked away in the second pool. The main one was stylishly quiet, and in a sense, out of bounds for the little fellas. Brilliantly done, we thought. The food, staff-responsiveness, and bang-for-buck (we were staying in rather well-appointed rooms with high-speed internet for $60 per night) make the Azalai Grande a recommended choice for future travellers.

The bustling nightlife of Bamako town... music spilling from nooks and crannies that we were expecting to encounter on our first evening... eluded us on the first night. We went to a couple of places where we were told it’s still too early (things apparently kicked off midnight onwards). Dejected, we went to a street they call the Rue De Princesse, which was better, with a bunch of cafes, bistros and restaurants lined up along a dusty side alley. We blindly tried one of the places, called La Terrace. Turned out to be a great choice, really... a cavernous and beautifully designed open-format place where a lot of beautiful people were hanging out. A bevy of beauties were manning the bars (Ivorians, we later learnt), so bar stools were a natural choice. John Fogerty was belting out old CCR hits 20 years too late on the giant video screen, although that was not the high point of the ambience. In all, when in Bamako, look up Rue De Princesse for an early evening session, before the serious stuff.

The serious stuff, we glimpsed on our following evening. After a day spent visiting markets, talking to consumers, and basically working our bones off, we needed to chill in a large way. There is a street in Bamako which houses all the fine-dining stuff. TexMex, Thai, Italian, Lebanese, they have it all. We went to a French/Mediterranean restaurant at a wrap party that the Nestle people were throwing. It turned out to be memorable, not for the food so much, but for the house band... a blind keyboard player and a sunburnt guitarist, played distilled versions of French/Polynesian/Acoustic classics. It being a corporate type sit-down dinner after a hard day’s work, the party retired at the polite hour, leaving us stranded somewhat. Thankfully, our gentle host Desiree really shined here... Our main man lost the crowd, and thereafter proceeded to drive us to where the action was. From nowhere, his buddies emerged, and before we knew it, we were plush inside a jazz club with class written all over it, and a full-fledged band playing breathtaking jazz in the house. Finally! We settled in like the proverbial birds. Mr Jack was in da house, and all was well with God’s world.

No visit to Mali is complete without a mention of what struck me as its greatest asset... it’s artisana. This has got to be one of the most artistic nations on earth. Take the fine weaving of the Bogalon fabric, where mud fabric is all hand spun with earthy African motifs, and then the entire piece of fabric is dyed in tea made from the Bogalon tree found in Mali... or take the breathtaking Malian masks, Ebony wood carvings, the Djembe drum of the Dogon people, ancient Moslemic brass weaponry, the scriptures of Tombouctou, the list goes on and on. As one of the earliest seats of Moslem learning and culture, Malian art is a heady Molotov cocktail made of diverse ingredients... the Tuareg, the Songhai, the Dogon, the Bambara, all these people and cultures contribute, and make Mali one of the most artsy cultures in the world. Struck me as a pity that the government of Mali or France has never really been able to represent the wealth of the material available, and exploit its tourist potential.

Perhaps it’s better left so...

Et si l’Afrique refusait le developement?

What if Africa refused to be developed, intentionally?

Mali Lynx

The Festival of the Desert | The legendary Festival of the desert every January attracts tourists from the world over.

http://africaguide.com/travel/package/1708.htm

Et si l’Afrique refusait le developement? | Axelle Kabou’s 1991 Classic on developmental economics where she argues the case for an Africa that refues to be developed along Western lines, and argues what if it is deliberate.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Axelle_Kabou

Mia Mali | If you happen to visit Bamako, definitely check out this gift shop. Admittedly boutique, it is still very decently priced for the kind of stuff on offer.

http://www.elainebellezza.com/

Azalai Hotels | A good choice. We were at the Azalai Grande, which is a really nice and cost-effective option. However, the Azalai Nord Sud (which we visited) has a super-duper Jazz club and is even more upmarket.

http://www.azalaihotels.com/

Artisana | The open market near the Courts leads to this amazing Crafts bazaar where the best of Malian crafts are available in a haggle and haul bazaar environment that will please even hardcore street market buffs. Do not miss.

Timbuktoo Scriptures | A New York Times piece on the ancient scriptures of Timbuktoo that gives insight into its past and perhaps future significance.

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/08/07/world/africa/07mali.html?_r=2

First Thoughts on Africa

Although it feels like months, it’s exactly 2 weeks now since we have arrived in Africa. Today it rained for the first time since we’ve been here. The first rain of the season, it seems, officially ending the dry season that stretches from December till middle/late April. And the beginning of the first of two ‘wet’ seasons... This one will stretch from now until about August end. Then it will go away, only to reappear again towards late October for a month and a half of ‘reverse’ monsoons. And then, from December on, it will be dry. It is during this time that the Sahelian desert winds will blow the ominous Harmattan over the plains of West Africa. The dusty desert winds that will reduce visibility to only a few metres, and fill the air up with a permanent haze that will last for weeks, even months, in the land-locked hinterland of Chad, Niger, Burkina and Northern Ghana. Eventually, the smog will lift, as the harsh equatorial sun will blanch everything else in its wake. And another calendar year will have passed in one of God’s nether zones.

Accra. Capital of modern day Ghana, Kingdom of the Ashanti warriors. As our British Airways flight touched down on Kotoka International Airport, we had reason to be nervous. It was our very first time in Africa, after all.

Africa.

A-F-R-I-C-A.

Always in uppercase in the lexicon of God-fearing middle-class denizens of the (non-African) world. Like me. Probably my wife as well, sitting next to me, peering over my shoulder to follow the antics of the Rastafarian looking co-inhabitant of our middle aisle. No doubt thinking dark thoughts of what lay ahead.

So we disembark. It being a tiny little airport, the plane had almost pulled up to nearly the edge of the Airport Entrance gate. We hear strains of reggae music, as our bodies brace the tropical humid air for the first time. It is pitch black for some reason, as we take a few tentative steps towards the entrance gate. As our eyes adjust to the darkness, we see a white Police Car with orange stripes, parked over by the wayside. Three policemen seem to be inside, sitting in foot-tapping positions, loud reggae music blaring from within. This breaks the ice. Suddenly, we feel a surge of pure joy. It washes over us, delirious, we feel those first tentative steps turn to strides. Into Africa.

Accra. Capital of modern day Ghana, Kingdom of the Ashanti warriors, is a reasonably well-kept secret. As you step out of the airport, you are greeted by a large throb of touts who will try to carry your trolley, get you a hotel, even help you find your car (as ours tried to). Fortunately, the impact of the landing was cushioned by the fact that the company MD himself, along with his main man, our Senior Art Director, were personally there to whisk us away in what they kept calling the company car (a battered VW Golf from the last millennium). Before long, we found ourselves in a western-style Serviced Apartment, complete with accoutrements.

So that was two-weeks ago. And now we’re two weeks old here, and already, the city feels so much more familiar. So how exactly IS this place like? For the abysmally low amount of footage that Accra/even Ghana seems to consume, I have to reiterate, this place is a well-kept secret. Roads are good, traffic is heavy, but orderly (left hand drive, lights work 24 hours, people follow rules, and honking is rare by Indian standards), quality of life seems fairly okay (no signs of those type of images one tends to see in UNESCO brochure covers), people drive good imported cars, and dress in western outfits, the women seem pretty progressive in their clothes, nails and manner. Western style shops, cafes and restaurants abound, and every day, we find a new place that feels more western than we expected to find around here. Yes, they have shopping malls, with giant Walmart style supermarket chains, and cinemaplexes too. There’s a bunch of nice hotels, with expatriates patronizing pool-side cafes and live jazz bands, all of that.

Yesterday, we visited the city beach, known as Labadi Beach. There is a great energy in these people, a rhythm that is unique to this part of the world, and music flows like water. Housing is expensive, and very upscale indeed. We are still struggling to find something that sits in our budget, the prices in the swanker parts of town are comparable to those in several western cities. The people here are friendly and well-mannered to a fault, although keeping time seems to be a challenge. They call it GMT (Ghana Maybe Time), because the country shares the same time zone as their erstwhile colonial masters.

The local currency is called Cedi (denoted by a C that’s cut vertically like a $). 1 Cedi roughly is 0.7$, or about Rs. 35. There are taxis available that may be flagged down from almost all areas, and although they are non-aircon, they are usually Toyota or VW, and fairly comfy. Best of all from our (rather narrow) perspective, there are some very good Indian restaurants in town, and two large Indian supermarkets that stocks everything from Kissan Jams to Kohinoor Atta, and everything in between. We’ve been told there is also an Indian cultural centre, where they are ‘having cultural programmes’. We have resisted the urge thus far, and have limited our socializing to Pakistani and French expatriates up until now. But it’s nice to know that there is a place we can go to when the inevitable crave for a Dosa, or a Dhokla strikes.

The ‘Office’ is a large two-storeyed bungalow with grounds that have eight fruit trees, including mango, avocado and lime. It is quite nice just to sit out and hear the birds twitter towards evening. The birds here are a sight to watch. The most common one, their equivalent of a sparrow I suppose, is a blue metallic double-toned colour. Also, there are these lizards which are multi-coloured blue/green that vignette to earth gold, extremely visually appealing to look at. The other thing about here. The business day begins strictly at 8 am. Again, bizarre fact for someone coming in from my part of the world, South Asia, where people saunter into work at around 11ish. Here, people (everybody) leaves home for work by 7 am, and all businesses are fully up and running by 8 am! And so I find my body clock completely changed, leaving the apartment by 7.45 am! Likewise, evenings post 5 pm are usually free (although how long my advertising job will allow for such luxury is probably not hard to imagine).

The nation is completely football crazy. The other day, we were at this place called Ryan’s Irish Pub, where I spotted some Wigan (Wigan?) fans actually cheering on during their Premiership game with Durham or some such, so you can well imagine the atmosphere during the bigger games. Everyone is extremely up to time on their soccer, and the Black Stars (the Ghanaian National team, fronted by Michael Essien and Stephen Ebebe) are a National treasure, and Chelsea the National Premiership team. As we arrive into the country, the Black Stars just beat the neighbouring Squirrels (The Benin National team for some reason carries the odd moniker), and have started their bid for a place in next year’s World Cup (to be held for the very first time in Africa, viz. South Africa) in a rather strong fashion. God forbid the guys make it to the World Cup Finals, for the strain of not doing so will surely out in ways I’d rather not imagine.

Today it rained for the first time, and it’s been raining all day long. We have spent the whole Easter weekend mostly reading, reflecting, and scribbling. They show ad-free films on the telly, so that is the other major pastime. G has been whipping up miraculous Indian khana like a maestro every now and again, today we had khichri for lunch on a rain-washed day. The pleasure of this, perhaps only an Indian will understand.

It still feels a little bit unreal. But in a nice way. One of these days, when my Pidgin picks up, I’ll probably be able to articulate it like a Ghanaian could.

Dat be da day.