Super Biton de Ségou

Back from the field, there’s hardly a better way to jump back into city life than a night out with legendary rockers, Super Biton, a 10-piece band from Ségou, Mali. Tickets were 2,000 CFA (less than 5 bucks) and we scored seats in the 5th row at the French Cultural Center in Bamako.

The concert was a big do because the group has been playing for decades but hasn’t performed live in a long time. The local news station was there, filming and interviewing people in the audience and the musicians. The show totally rocked.

The following night, Saturday, I was having dinner at a friend’s cousin’s house (I love how I am always a few times removed from someone who graciously extends the invitation to yours truly) and the evening news was on the TV when two funny things happened : 1) The Malian president’s brother walked into the room, and 2) I was staring at someone who looked like me on the TV. Then I realized that it was me – I was on the tube in Mali! It was just a split second, but it was indeed me, while I was sitting in the audience (apparently behind a musician who plays there frequently). A co-worker even stopped me in the hallway on Monday and said, « Hey! You were on the news the other night, the concert! » Hilarious, my brush with fame.

But I digress. Yes, I mentioned that the president’s brother pulled up a chair for drinks and apps and stayed for dinner. Turns out he’s buddies with the family. He even dropped us off at our hotel afterwards. I was riding shotgun wishing I had something intelligent to say, but could only mumble in French that the song on his cell phone ring is one of my favorites.

Afterwards we met up with a group of pals to dance the night away. The only un-fun part of the night was when a police barricade singled out our taxi to inspect everyone’s identification cards. The driver and the two guys in our group who were riding with us handed over Malian ID cards, all fine. The other two of us showed our US passports and next I heard the police demanding everyone get out of the taxi and pay them 50,000 CFA because our passports were « not valid. » I’ll admit it, I panicked a little. I didn’t know what the typical sequence of events was for these kinds of shenanegans, nor how serious they were about getting the money versus letting us proceed, but any fears about my personal safety scattered when I looked outside the taxi and saw our buddies – 7 guys willing to go to bat for us two girls – already talking to the cops.

Thankfully the other American is calm at baseline and hardly batted an eye at such nonsense. She simply announced, « I’m calling the Embassy » and when the three officers heard her talking on the phone, they quickly backed off and started inspecting the taxi’s headlight, declaring it didn’t work. That was the last we heard of our « invalid passports » and soon after we were en route to the boîte de nuit, dancing until the morning calls to prayer were sounding outside.