The crowd was spellbound. When I caught up with him later, he defined a griot as someone with a good memory: “Before, nothing was written. All the news you got was what came through the ears. And it was the griot who retained many things. The griot is the ear of the people and the ear of the king.” He drew a distinction between the terms griot and musical artist: “One is born griot — it’s in the blood — but one becomes an artist. Even if you’re not a griot, you can learn to be an artist.”
Many musicians in Bamako work Sundays, when weddings wrap up. Paul Chandler plays regularly with a djembe (traditional drum) group led by lanky young Siaka Doumbia. This week they were playing on the south bank of the Niger River. Under a tent in the street, women from the bride’s and groom’s families listened as a female griot signaled the drummers what to play.
The momentum mounted: Siaka anchored the rhythm with a cowbell in one hand and a drum between his legs. Another drummer helped lay the foundation while Paul and two others wove rhythms between them. The crowd was rapt. A boy handed me a glass of African tea, and it tasted sweet.
I took a bus to Segou, where the Festival sur le Niger takes place every February. After the Mali Empire faded, Segou became the seat of the Bambara Empire, which lasted until 1861. As I rode into town on a stately, jampacked Bittar bus, Segou unfurled imperially along a wide avenue lined with large shade trees. We rolled past examples of colonial architecture (the police station, city hall), striking adobe minarets atop mosques and gateways along the river.
At the last festival, you could find Malian stars Vieux Farka Toure (son of Ali Farka Toure), Bassekou Kouyate, Oumou Sangare, as well as Toumani Diabate and Abdoulaye Diabate (not related). Headliners from neighboring countries included Femi Kuti (Fela’s son) and Senegalese star Ismael Lo playing on stages along the river.
“The Festival in the Desert is for the international crowd,” one local told me, referring to the Timbuktu scene. “The Segou festival is for us.” That’s how I’ve heard New Orleanians compare Jazz Fest with the more intimate French Quarter Festival.
In the town center, Segou’s dusty streets can look dirty. And when it’s not festival time, the music scene pales beside Bamako’s. But even in the hot season I found offerings. Near my hotel by the river, Mamadou Kouyate set a music salon called La Bouzou throbbing as he taught drums to young hopefuls. Later that evening, Mamadou sat in at a local nightspot. The sounds wafted up to the rooftop of Hotel Djoliba, where I was enjoying pizza overlooking the square. I stopped into the bar to hear the group play.
A few blocks south, the club Espace Kora hosted local singers doing a Malian version of karaoke, with a live trio accompanying them. They shared so much musical vocabulary that even though they’d never played together before, the singers and band communicated seamlessly. The courtyard felt like a tropical beer garden with lights twinkling in the night.
On the road back to Bamako, I stopped to visit a clinic in the small town of Marka Coungo. Not to romanticize it, but music is part of a cultural glue that keeps Malians’ rural ties closer than in many African countries. Dr. Nimaga remains at the Marka Coungo clinic near his family despite offers to go elsewhere. I’d been told that a polite visitor “asks for the road” (for permission to leave), so as my visit ended, I asked.
“I give you half the road,” replied the doctor. The other half, he explained with a smile, would eventually lead the host back to his visitor.
Mali: Details on how to get there, what to do and where to stay
Taylor, author of “Soul of a People” and other books, can be reached at www.davidataylor.com. His trip to Mali was funded by the International Reporting Project.
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