Flashing Lights

"The Diplomat" restaurant is known all around Bamako for its atmosphere: local music played at extremely high levels for nonlocals. It's a hub for ex-patriots who want to feel as though they're being culturally immersed, even though there are no Malians in sight.

When I had asked my friend Amanda where would be a good spot for local music on Saturday night, this is where she suggested. With old roommate Bremen, Johns Hopkins colleague Tina, and my Cameroonian boss David, we got a table, ordered fruit juice cocktails, and waited for the live music.

The DJ played a great mix of Afro-techno and traditional music, and we waited for the live band to show up. At any lull in the conversation we could either watch the strange array of American music videos that served as a backdrop to the African music (No Doubt, James Blunt, Billy Joel's "Uptown Girl" video even played) or we could watch the massive group of Parisian girls dance to the music.

Our fish dinners had come and gone, and there was still no live music. Finally, an older man with perfect white curls in his hair came and asked us if we had enjoyed our dinner. He introduced himself as the owner.

We all agreed that the fish was delicious, but expressed our concern that the live band had not yet taken the stage.

Due to the rains (always the reason for something going wrong), the roads were too bad and the band could not make it out tonight. He suggested we bite the bullet and get out there and dance to the DJ.

He asked if I spoke Spanish, and when I said that Tina was a native Espaganole his eyes lit up. And out on the dance floor, so did his hips.

This Spanish restaurant owner, fueled by disco and strobe lights, really got his groove on. He would look back every so often to see if Tina was paying attention, and when he saw me taking this video the old man gave me quite a back lean in what I think was another dance invitation.



A few minutes later we caved and started dancing, but talk about sensory overload!

On the taxi drive home, I was still hearing the music blaring in my head and seeing the disco lights all around me. Then I realized that the sound and lights weren't in my head: they were coming from the car next to us. A truck labelled "1er Arrondissement" was honking and someone was shining a flashlight into our taxi. We pulled over.

A policeman in uniform walked up to the front window and asked me and Tina for our passports.

Claudia, my American boss, had previously warned me that after 11PM foreigners are required to have their passports, so I got mine out of my bag. Tina, who had only come to Bamako for a week to help with the malaria forum, didn't have hers.

She explained that it was right down the road at the hotel, and if the police car could follow, she could show it to him within 5 minutes. He refused, saying in perfect English that without her passport she had two options.

The first option was to spend the night in jail, and the second was to pay 18,000 fCFA, roughly $40US. A ludicrous amount.

We called David and handed the phone to the officer, who was yelling that he'd been to three international police academies, flashed us his ID ever so quickly, and asked us to get out of the car.

Tina tried to appeal to his soft side, saying that he's supposed to be protecting us as a member of the police force and that we were only on our way home. I chimed in, saying that we were here in Bamako to help his countrymen in "la lutte contre le paludisme."

He didn't want to hear any of it.

Tina said she'd consider paying the fine, but wanted a receipt. He couldn't provide a receipt here, so she got to yelling. This tiny Spaniard roared that this was corruption and that she wouldn't pay. After about 20 minutes of going back and forth, I finally got smart.

I asked him for his ID so that I could copy down his information. After all his yelling and hard-headedness, he starts laughing.

"Oh, non non non non Madame. Ca ne va pas marcher."/"That will not work." When I asked why, he said: "Je vais manger ton argent, tu vois?"/"I will eat your money, don't you see?" as he makes a hand gesture towards his mouth.

He continues laughing, "Why don't we do this. You pay me half, 9,000 fCFA, you don't copy down my information, and we call it even."

Then he does the unthinkable. He goes in for the high-five.

Thirty minutes of yelling, pleading, arguing, making phone calls, and even guilt-tripping the taxi-driver, and here he was going in for the Malian high-five.

At this point, we were ready to be done with him and nearly hated him. But I couldn't help it, I accepted the high-five and started laughing, then said: "Monsieur, nous ne sommes PAS amis!" "Mister, we are NOT friends! Not after this!"

When we handed him a 10,000 fCFA note, he said he didn't have change. Tina and I yell at him in unison, "Of COURSE you don't have change!"

And then, of course, he laughs and goes in for another high-five.