Running On Water - Part 1 - from The Mali Matrix

The Mali Matrix:
The Bamako Brawl and Other Adventures of a Gold Runner
By: Kyle A. Foster

Running On Water

Easter Sunday in Mali is a festive holiday, as is Easter Monday – a national holiday. This might seem odd considering that the population of the country is ninety-percent Muslim and, at least in theory, theologically opposed to the idea of Christ as the Risen Son of God. However, I’d been in Mali long enough that nothing much surprised me any longer and given that the national motto may as well have been, ‘Party till you Drop,’ there was a perfect logic to this seemingly theological contradiction. Any excuse for a holiday was acceptable.

While I was there we celebrated Independence Day, The Prophet Mohammed’s Birthday, Revolution Day, The Chinese Vice Premier’s Visit, Easter Saturday, Easter Sunday, Easter Monday and National Voter Registration Day. Each of these occasions brought with it a full day off of work, backyard barbeques (pork of all things), visits to the local bar, and raucous nights of dancing. This wasn’t just for a select group in the society. I was trying to avoid these things because I had a job to do. This was EVERYBODY. And therefore I found it very hard to avoid. As my hippie friend said to me at the beginning of this book, ‘When in Rome do as the fuckin’ Romans.’

Of all of these holidays, though, Easter Sunday was anticipated and celebrated with more ‘joi de vivre’ than any of the others. I had been invited to a barbeque at our client’s home. Predictably, he called to cancel because it was Easter Sunday. So when Sam Baldwin called to invite me to a picnic on the River Niger, I accepted. Baldwin was already at the river with Clint Eastwood and Hemingway so he gave me instructions to catch a taxi, point the taxi east on the main road out of town and then call him back. He’d guide the taximan in. ‘And bring your swimsuit,’ he added.

I put on my smimsuit and, following my doctor’s orders, a hat and sunglasses, before going out to the street to catch a taxi. I got the taxi pointed east and called Baldwin. He told the taximan where to take me. We drove out of town through green fields and then turned south along a dirt trail following the river. We’d bounced along the trail for about fifteen minutes when the taximan pulled over and stopped. I looked around. There wasn’t another person in sight, just a long stretch of river and trees running to the horizon. ‘Illegal for taximan this place,’ the driver said looking back at me. I offered him more money. ‘No, sorry, illegal.’ I paid him and got out, watching the taxi slowly move forward bouncing on the rutted trail – in the direction that I should be going. ‘Expect the impossible and don’t take anything for granted.’

I was in the middle of nowhere. This is one of those rare occasions when the modern cell phone actually comes in handy. I called Baldwin and, as I expected, they were somewhere up ahead in the direction the taxi had taken and, ‘across a beat to fuck old bridge.’

I walked ahead under the hammer edge of the African sun, thankful for the wise, practical advice of my doctor. I’d walked for about half an hour with no bridge in sight when, in spite of my anti-sun equipment, I started to wilt from thirst and dehydration. Heat exhaustion was surely just around the corner. This is where Mali culture has provided a very practical solution for the wayward traveler. In Mali, you must always have water available at your place of residence and you must always offer it freely to anyone who asks of it, be they Christian, Muslim, Jew, highway robber, brigand or strange looking white dudes with hat and sunglasses. I had witnessed total strangers walk in off the street, point at a bucket of water without a word, receive a drink and then walk away without a word of thanks. I was determined to take advantage of this wonderful hospitality and I kept my eyes peeled for any signs of peopled habitation. Another ten minutes or so walk up the river I saw a traditional hut in the distance with an old woman sitting outside. I walked off the road to the hut where the old lady sat and said sternly, ‘Hey, old lady. Water!’ pointing to the clay jar in front of her. She smiled as if she understood my joke completely and ladled a big scoop of water into a tin cup and handed it to me. I drank it all down and was surprised to find it refreshing and cool. Then, unable to carry my ruse any further, I broke into a smile, handed her the cup and said, ‘Merci.’ She returned a huge, toothless smile and gave me a little bow. I bowed in return and walked on, finally coming to the ‘bridge’ fifteen or so minutes later. It wasn’t so much a bridge as a ramshackle concrete dock two-hundred yards long spanning the river where it flowed over barren, black volcanic rock. Whitewashed concrete tombs straddled some of the higher, larger rock formations. ‘Ali’ was painted on the side of one in big, bold, black letters with a large Christian Cross next to it. I wondered if Ali was a Sufi or just hedging his bets.

Across the bridge I could see a large crowd of four or five thousand people on a grassy meadow down along the river’s bank to the right. I stood up on the bluff overlooking the scene: colors, tents, drums beating, a group of two or three hundred men and women line- dancing, thousands of motorbikes lined up perfectly parallel parked around the green and the Niger running white and blue over rapids behind it all. I called Baldwin. This is another case where the mobile phone has a practical application – when you’re lost in a crowd. ‘Hey, I see you white boy!’ he said. ‘What?’ I asked, scanning the scene. ‘You’re the only other white man here and you’re wearing a hat and sunglasses. Come straight down the path and you’ll find me.’ I walked straight down into the crowd and there was the smiling, shirtless Baldwin. He was wearing some kind of dainty silver slippers. ‘Nice shoes, Baldwin.’ I said, shaking his hand. ‘These are my jelly sandals, everyone wears them here,’ he said, handing me a beer. It was cold. ‘Where did you get this?’ I asked. ‘You can get anything here,’ he said, looking around. There were little stalls everywhere with women selling cold drinks out of coolers, kebabs off the grill, homemade jewelry, clothing, candies, sunglasses…

He led me down to the river across a series of stones in the water to a large boulder where Eastwood and Hemingway, both in sunglasses, sat looking back over the crowd on the riverbank like two King-Stewards in their realm. Bongo was there in a strapless yellow bikini and sunglasses sitting between them. Eastwood stood to give us a hand-up.

‘Hi Boss,’ Bongo purred, lifting her sunglasses.

‘Hi Bongo. How do you manage to keep that suit on?’

‘You’re a bad man!’ she said, slapping my leg as I sat down behind her and Hemingway.

‘Yes I am. But not as bad as Hemingway here, he’s dangerous.’

‘Wayae!’ Eastwood laughed, sitting down and slapping his knee.

Baldwin sat down next to me. ‘So what took you so long?’

I told him about the taxi letting me out in the middle of nowhere. He said that taxis weren’t allowed to cross the bridge but couldn’t make sense of why he’d let me out three miles down the road. ‘Maybe he thought I needed the exercise.’

I looked out over the crowd. There was a lot of energy there. The line-dancing group had grown, I guessed it at five or six-hundred. Someone had pulled a purple school bus onto the green and rock music blasted from makeshift speakers on the roof. A rock n’ roll crowd was gathering there. There was a real sense of community and abandoning of the self to the crowd. I also got the sense that one or two wrong moves by the wrong person and the whole scene could go Rwanda very quickly. I was glad we were alone on our own little island.

The air was cool here and behind us the rapids rushed and rolled in a white frenzy. Hemingway had a big plastic bag with ice and beers. Bongo was making sandwiches. Eastwood was rolling one of his left-handed cigarettes. This was turning out to be a perfect Easter picnic.

To be continued....