Niger River Project

I had an idea I wanted to photograph people asleep in the street. I wanted to give the pictures a ‘scene of crime’ objectivity and detachment, similar to the great Weegee of New York fame.

Ben and I had been observing street life in Bamako over the last few days, and we were both taken with the idea that life here happens without walls. Everything from eating and sleeping, to working and hanging out, happens within view of the world.

The camera I have doesn’t allow for any discrete long-shots, so I decided to get up at 0430 and patrol the streets, looking for some interesting juxtapositions.

People here are very wary of the camera. The street in Europe – which we consider to be a public place – is accepted here as being just a continuation of a living room.

So it’s not more than 10 minutes before the strobe of my flash gun attracts some unwanted attention. I’ve been spotted by a security guard or policeman who starts shouting, calling me to account. I can’t think how I’m going to explain my actions, so I keep walking. Next I hear a blast on a whistle, which cuts through the still night air, and I flinch as if a bullet just winged over my head.

Turning out of view I increase my pace back towards the sanctuary of the Auberge. I don’t look back, staying focused on trying to put some distance between us.

But I can’t help taking one last shot of a mother and two children sprawled out under an orning. Again I’m spotted: this time a woman selling street food yells her disapproval. I get the message and keep walking back to the room, imagining her giving the pursuing copper my last movements.

I creep back in and I lie in bed wondering who the British consular rep is in Bamako.

Suffice to say, I’m not spending the festive season in a Bamako jail, but that said project is on hold… Merry Christmas everyone!

The Catholic Mission where we’re staying is a tranquil haven in the midst of bustling central Bamako. Coming and going, one runs the gauntlet of street hawkers selling everything from ‘authentic’ jewelry, to their own ‘indispensible’ guiding services.

Omar was looking for a Spanish friend of his to take to a music event on the other side of town, but had seen no sign of him. He asked if I wanted to go instead. My senses said this guy was genuine and I decided to trust him with his word. So off we went.

Ben, still suffering from his flu like symptoms, was more than happy to have an early night, so we meandered our way towards the river. On the way we passed a flickering TV showing a concert, Omar excitedly telling me we should hurry up, the show’s already started. Cool: it’s televised.

Crossing the ‘Pont des Martyrs’ Omar’s choking on the peanuts he’s just bought, gagging on a huge reefer, while trying to shout down his sister who goes sailing past on a scooter. It’s a commical scene which breaks the ice.

The show is well underway as we descend the crumbling bank, by-passing the entrance. Orange, the phone company, has a logo embazoned across the stage. We weave through the crowd, and find ourselves poised on the edge of a moat of space between us and the inner circle of spectators: clearly the latter have paid. It’s patrolled – in the loosest sense of the word – by cops, but I sense Omar’s bravado is increasing.

‘Lets go’, he says and we break into the open, and then jostling, back into a mass of bodies. We’ve got away with it. It’s a good view for my 6 feet, but Omar’s having none of it and he guides me round to the back of the stage on the seemingly spurious notion of meeting some of his Musician friends.

From there we crouch in the wings of the stage. Omar leads a chorus of abuse aimed at one of the TV crew when they spoil his view. I don’t think you’d get this at the beeb. We watch a snake charmer who, in a gut wrenching ‘tromp l’oeil’, then turns his hand to hacking at his arm with a blade, drawing gasps from the crowd. With a couple of casts from his Ju-Ju wand and a bit of saliva, the wound is miraculously healed.

Omar then makes a dash for the front row and I find myself diving for a gap. We’ve started a mini avalanche of gate-crashers, which causes jears from the crowd behind. We hunker down and stare past the now leering coppers. They want us all to go back, but everyone’s accutely aware of the roaming TV crew: the sargeant seems to be keen to play the whole thing down. High on the adrenaline, we allow each other a look that says: bien joué!

We’re now in pole position and Omar’s gold tooth gets an airing with his now uninterupted grin. The rythms and sounds are from some of Malis most talented acts, and a real insight into what we’ll have in store at the ‘Festival au Desert’ in January. Dancers accompany the musician each in turn performing their own solos to portions of the crowd, gyrating hips with as much flair as the guitarist plucking strings Hendrix style behind his head.

The night’s over all too soon. We flood through the gates for the first time and start the long walk along the deserted city streets, punctuated with guards lying corpse like, rifles just out of arms reach.

I won’t forget the night I was almost thrown out of my first Malian music gig and I thank Omar warmly for the experience. But it won’t be my last run in with the law.

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