Thursday afternoon in Essakane, 50 ks out of Timbuktu.
I heave my way up a dune, looking for a drink and maybe cool company when this guy leaps up to me, makes me take a sit, puts a glass of Johny Walker in front of me and invites me, Belle, to sit with him and his crew.
No sweat. A middle aged crowd to ease the pain of my teens and youth hovering around me.
And, obvisouly, not going to try seling me something so I sat, took a swig and officially started my first night, first time at the annual festival au desert.
A little while later.
He, dressed in black and an over sized rasta cap, wool, comes over to the table. He being Habib Koite, one of my favourite artists...also one of Africa's and the world's finest.
Everyone acts like the old friends they are, greeting, laughing, high fiving. I get up. Go to his side, take his hands into my mine, bow a bit and say, "Ntate Koite, ke nna Lerato Mogoatlhe."
He says happy to meet you. Being on the same table, we start talking, he wants to know where I al from, what I am doing in Mali ("here to stalk you," said and received with a smile)
We chat, he chat, he says improve your French coz you are missig out and then tells me that he just called for a "mutton". Nku, igusha, sheep. Which they brng alive, slaughter and skin net daar so.
The night progresses, the festival starts and I think why be net to the stage when I could be hangig with Koit'e, talking his music and how we will def be skeeming each other back in Bamako. Seems everyone thinks that too so we hang around teh table, next to a bon fire, laughing as hard as Malians love doing.
Salif Keita comes on. We go watch him perform. I head back to the Bar and Habib's skeem, the peopel who invited me to sit with them, refuse to let me go to bed.
HUGE favour.
Koite returns. We all move inside, sit on the carpet and lay his music.
Mmma we. Koite did not know what him.
I ask him to dance. We do, to Massake.
He cannot move to save his life. O steifi and u know how sad it is to watch Black people who cant dance?
So he sits.
And I show him how to move to these songs that so feed my soul. And when I say move, I mean MOVE.
I will end here.
By saying what a man, what a moment. I look forward to many chapters of "When Habib Koite met Lerato"
oh.
On Friday I took a break from the guys. Guess what was the first thing Habib said to me when he saw me on Saturday morning?
"I did not see you last night. Where were you?"
Niger
On the banks of the river Niger, Bamako. Sigh.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Friday, December 19, 2008
Fast Gossip
O.M.G
I am shocked at how hard the men here work to get a woman they think has money.
That woman is primarily caucasian. Though, don't forget Stella, she of getting her groove back, was a muntu. Ghana is hook up land. Old and middle aged white women dating guys old enough to be their kids (illustrating not judging). The women are the money, and boy do they keep the dosh coming, and the brothers are their sex toys, lovers, husbands, kings etc etc. Many are the euphemisms for male ho.
Let us call him Exhibit Lucky for being Lucky Dube's number fan. We met at the bar at Big Milly's on Sunday morning. He was with his buddy. I joined in, discovered we share interests and thought I had made friends.
A few weeks later, another friend takes me back to his crib to hang with the gang. Exhibit Lucky was part of the gang. Along with his wife. They married in July, her eyes still had stars and she coudl not believe that she is someone's wife. "That is crazy, right?" was her statement.
I agreed. He does not seem a husband type.
Anyway, way, girls being girls, we started talking, bonding, gossping about how difficult men can be. She, being from the West, added that men here are rather strict with their wives. They want them back in the village doing makoti duties. "So traditional and obsessed with culture," she explained.
My groot bek added: They are just giving you bull.
Guess what? A week later, Exhibit Lucky made a public annoucement of no longer wanting me anywhere near him, his wife and life.
Why?
Coz I saw him with another "Queen", his weekend special.
The rumour mill went into overdrive telling me about how most marriages are just a sham to get a Eurpean or American visa. And how basically, any woman with some money will do. There is even a young guy married to a very wrinkled woman who ought to be going to a nursing home, not on honeymoon.
I am shocked at how hard the men here work to get a woman they think has money.
That woman is primarily caucasian. Though, don't forget Stella, she of getting her groove back, was a muntu. Ghana is hook up land. Old and middle aged white women dating guys old enough to be their kids (illustrating not judging). The women are the money, and boy do they keep the dosh coming, and the brothers are their sex toys, lovers, husbands, kings etc etc. Many are the euphemisms for male ho.
Let us call him Exhibit Lucky for being Lucky Dube's number fan. We met at the bar at Big Milly's on Sunday morning. He was with his buddy. I joined in, discovered we share interests and thought I had made friends.
A few weeks later, another friend takes me back to his crib to hang with the gang. Exhibit Lucky was part of the gang. Along with his wife. They married in July, her eyes still had stars and she coudl not believe that she is someone's wife. "That is crazy, right?" was her statement.
I agreed. He does not seem a husband type.
Anyway, way, girls being girls, we started talking, bonding, gossping about how difficult men can be. She, being from the West, added that men here are rather strict with their wives. They want them back in the village doing makoti duties. "So traditional and obsessed with culture," she explained.
My groot bek added: They are just giving you bull.
Guess what? A week later, Exhibit Lucky made a public annoucement of no longer wanting me anywhere near him, his wife and life.
Why?
Coz I saw him with another "Queen", his weekend special.
The rumour mill went into overdrive telling me about how most marriages are just a sham to get a Eurpean or American visa. And how basically, any woman with some money will do. There is even a young guy married to a very wrinkled woman who ought to be going to a nursing home, not on honeymoon.
Highlights ..
They include meeting Kristina aka Bingy. She is like so many of my sisters- stylish, fun, sassy, funky, fearless, hot inside out, runs and own a restaurant. She is Ghanaian, been here in Abidjan a year and even thinks in French now.
She had a baby at 14 and asked if she was not freaking out she said nope, she discovered at five months, went to have an abortion but it was too late and there was nothing she could do; let alone freak out coz the baby was on the way. Her folks took it in their stride too, no shouting, fainting, beating, name calling how am going to face my peers now.
Incredible. Very unlike what would be a typical South African parent's response of snot, trane, drama and wondering how to deal with the shame.
I am also meeting a lot of Nigerian guys. Yup, there is naija everywhere. They are something else. Very in your face about what they want, including you and they will try gettingwhat they want, including, by all means neccesary. So anyway, Bingy and I are on the phone when some takes it to chat to me. Says hi, come over to the restaurant I would like to meet you. His name is Kevin and says everyone must be happy to meet him, so it is whatever I want on him, plus the three of us heading back to his studio for some lala, reggae and whisky. When we get there he says, "I hope you people are comfortable"
I love how peopel around here express themselves. Like, Bingy lost her fave ankel bracelet. "And it is paining me," she said, adding, "But the fact is what? The fact is it is lost. I must move on."
They Nigerians and Ghanaians express themselves...the pidgin, pictures and frankness.
I dig it
Love
L
She had a baby at 14 and asked if she was not freaking out she said nope, she discovered at five months, went to have an abortion but it was too late and there was nothing she could do; let alone freak out coz the baby was on the way. Her folks took it in their stride too, no shouting, fainting, beating, name calling how am going to face my peers now.
Incredible. Very unlike what would be a typical South African parent's response of snot, trane, drama and wondering how to deal with the shame.
I am also meeting a lot of Nigerian guys. Yup, there is naija everywhere. They are something else. Very in your face about what they want, including you and they will try gettingwhat they want, including, by all means neccesary. So anyway, Bingy and I are on the phone when some takes it to chat to me. Says hi, come over to the restaurant I would like to meet you. His name is Kevin and says everyone must be happy to meet him, so it is whatever I want on him, plus the three of us heading back to his studio for some lala, reggae and whisky. When we get there he says, "I hope you people are comfortable"
I love how peopel around here express themselves. Like, Bingy lost her fave ankel bracelet. "And it is paining me," she said, adding, "But the fact is what? The fact is it is lost. I must move on."
They Nigerians and Ghanaians express themselves...the pidgin, pictures and frankness.
I dig it
Love
L
Woza January
The new ager in me used facebook status updates to channel the experience. So that I would be bored as ever, stuffed into an office that could barely contain the furniture let alone the four people sharing it.
One of those updates was Lerato is marching around Dogon Country, Mali. There will be no marching but there will be Dogon country, come January.
Africa is romancing me. And I loves it. Come Jan, I will also be jamming ko Sahara at the festival au dessert. 50km after Timbuktu.
One of those updates was Lerato is marching around Dogon Country, Mali. There will be no marching but there will be Dogon country, come January.
Africa is romancing me. And I loves it. Come Jan, I will also be jamming ko Sahara at the festival au dessert. 50km after Timbuktu.
Update
As I head to month six on Dec 23....
My eyes are blinking faster than normal, heart doing the double espresso marathon thing becoz I still cannot believe it. I am here. Someone pinch me. I am in Le riviera, Abidjan and calling this a cyber instead of internet cafe. Breakfast is demi, half, french bread with butter. I used to think they are being rather heavy handed with the butter even after I asked them to go light till I saw that buttering bread here is actually stuffing butter with bread, that is how much they use.
My cafe au lait is not top notch coffee, simple nescafe, au lait part taken care of by condensce milk that they go heavy on... more than half a tea cup of it. The cafe is as make shift as ever. two counters, two benches nailed to the floor. One Suleymana serving with a smile.
It is so strange to think of when I looked at my Lonely Planet maps, planned and chose where to go and wondered if my pronouciation was on point to now living the experience. It is just so strange. I visualized it, prayed tons about it and am now inhailing the heavy traffic fumes that make popping asprin second nature.
I once said via status update...I am in Kokrobite with rasta, music and drums...and I was in Kkbitey with much more than what I knew was waiting.I am at palces that called my name, it is so powerful. I love their brokeness, isolation, the hardness around the edges. More than than the wonderful moments, the magic of their newness, the comfort of their familiriarity...I am here.
My eyes are blinking faster than normal, heart doing the double espresso marathon thing becoz I still cannot believe it. I am here. Someone pinch me. I am in Le riviera, Abidjan and calling this a cyber instead of internet cafe. Breakfast is demi, half, french bread with butter. I used to think they are being rather heavy handed with the butter even after I asked them to go light till I saw that buttering bread here is actually stuffing butter with bread, that is how much they use.
My cafe au lait is not top notch coffee, simple nescafe, au lait part taken care of by condensce milk that they go heavy on... more than half a tea cup of it. The cafe is as make shift as ever. two counters, two benches nailed to the floor. One Suleymana serving with a smile.
It is so strange to think of when I looked at my Lonely Planet maps, planned and chose where to go and wondered if my pronouciation was on point to now living the experience. It is just so strange. I visualized it, prayed tons about it and am now inhailing the heavy traffic fumes that make popping asprin second nature.
I once said via status update...I am in Kokrobite with rasta, music and drums...and I was in Kkbitey with much more than what I knew was waiting.I am at palces that called my name, it is so powerful. I love their brokeness, isolation, the hardness around the edges. More than than the wonderful moments, the magic of their newness, the comfort of their familiriarity...I am here.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
So...
I am having breakfast- atchieke, a piece of fish, sliced chilli, tomatoes and onion, with a sprinkiling of maggi seasoning if you are keen. So I am chowing this in a very make shift shack of a restaurant that has three walls, two tables, four long benches, a potholed floor that is already covered in the fish bones that people spit out as they eat. I am here when the radio plays Brenda Fassie's Vulindela and two people, self included, start singing along.
The song reminded me of my first of many nights at Vieradrome Kafe (a night club). My buddy Kristal plays pool there. They know her, they like her, she even brings hair from Ghana for one of the two pretty hosts in the dimly lit pool room that has red walls and a giant mirror on one side; so you check yourself working your game. And do they ever check themselves out! Ivorian men are obsessed with how they look.
Anyway, I get introduced to the manager/DJ and upon hearing I am South African, heads to the DJ booth to annouce "Vulindlela will be coming up soon." And everyone gets ready to jam. A few eager beavers head to the front lines of the dance floor. Daar is wal to wall mirrors so you can check youself getting down. And so we ever!
One time in Bobo, Burkina Faso, the DJ played a Thomas Chauke in my honour. I arrived at the club around 8pm and stayed glued to my seat until the DJ started with the reagge set three hours later. Reggae turned to DRC, Cote d Ivoire, Afro beat and Burkina music and more reggae and more African jams.
There was no getting me off the dance floor. Someone said where are you from? I said Mzansi Africa, they said wait I see if the DJ does not have your music.
He had the king of Tsonga music. We gyrated, shook it, got down and almost broke legs in what remains, one of the best party nights of my life.
The ending at 4am was just as lovely...
Light rain, back of a scooter, riding away from the centre into the hood, hanging with the gang.
Happy holidays
(to repeat the words of a gaint sign adorning the wall of someone's home, Xmas lights around teh wall and the sign. Nope they do not do understated around here)
The song reminded me of my first of many nights at Vieradrome Kafe (a night club). My buddy Kristal plays pool there. They know her, they like her, she even brings hair from Ghana for one of the two pretty hosts in the dimly lit pool room that has red walls and a giant mirror on one side; so you check yourself working your game. And do they ever check themselves out! Ivorian men are obsessed with how they look.
Anyway, I get introduced to the manager/DJ and upon hearing I am South African, heads to the DJ booth to annouce "Vulindlela will be coming up soon." And everyone gets ready to jam. A few eager beavers head to the front lines of the dance floor. Daar is wal to wall mirrors so you can check youself getting down. And so we ever!
One time in Bobo, Burkina Faso, the DJ played a Thomas Chauke in my honour. I arrived at the club around 8pm and stayed glued to my seat until the DJ started with the reagge set three hours later. Reggae turned to DRC, Cote d Ivoire, Afro beat and Burkina music and more reggae and more African jams.
There was no getting me off the dance floor. Someone said where are you from? I said Mzansi Africa, they said wait I see if the DJ does not have your music.
He had the king of Tsonga music. We gyrated, shook it, got down and almost broke legs in what remains, one of the best party nights of my life.
The ending at 4am was just as lovely...
Light rain, back of a scooter, riding away from the centre into the hood, hanging with the gang.
Happy holidays
(to repeat the words of a gaint sign adorning the wall of someone's home, Xmas lights around teh wall and the sign. Nope they do not do understated around here)
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Drugs
Are rather too easy to get. I have been offered coke in Accra, Ghana, at Kokrobitey the fishing village and Danquar Circle, Osu , by people who drop in the whole, Oh I can hook you up with drugs if you want them, line in between regualr chit chat.
Fancy escaping the madness to deal with more madness around me.
Last night was a classic offer. Was hanging out with a friend I really suspect of being a dealer. He calls someone, gives them my number and says whatever you need to buy, call him. I told him to be good to you.
I said no drugs thanks.
He said there is no way I am not on something and whatever it is, this here is your man for it.
He is now an ex friend.
I dislike people who offer me things they have never seen me take.
Trying to mess up a great life.
And besides, I have an old friend who says drugs are not what they used, "they are getting pumped on the equivalent of omo," I believe he said a few years ago.
Fancy escaping the madness to deal with more madness around me.
Last night was a classic offer. Was hanging out with a friend I really suspect of being a dealer. He calls someone, gives them my number and says whatever you need to buy, call him. I told him to be good to you.
I said no drugs thanks.
He said there is no way I am not on something and whatever it is, this here is your man for it.
He is now an ex friend.
I dislike people who offer me things they have never seen me take.
Trying to mess up a great life.
And besides, I have an old friend who says drugs are not what they used, "they are getting pumped on the equivalent of omo," I believe he said a few years ago.
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