Feeling a little under the weather lately? Trouble brewing at home? How about those post-holiday blues? Have no fear, because a witchdoctor is near. Whatever it is you need, a quick fix is just a monkey head, rabbit foot, or lion’s tail away. Just swing by the fetish stalls near Bamako’s seedy central market for all your potion making, voodoo, juju needs. I wish I was kidding, but sadly, I’m not.
West Africa is considered the birth place of voodoo and a host of other black-magic type practices. Walk through these markets and you’ll see a wide array of rotting animal heads, organs, skins, hair, and so on. It’s not for the faint at heart and no, it’s not for tourists either. The locals take this very seriously. Pictures are a no-no, but I managed to sneak one anyway. As usual, shame on me.
We spent the afternoon wandering around the dusty stalls, winding in and out of alleyways, just trying to take in the sights, sounds, and smells of the city. I can’t be certain, but it definitely felt like our presence wasn’t welcome by most. It felt as if everyone’s eyes were on us, watching our every move, and if we reached for our cameras, we received the shaking of heads and fingers from all directions. I later learned that Malians are very concerned with privacy and most assume you’re a journalist if totting a large camera around, like myself.
After a long day, we both felt deserving of a night out. Bamako has a thriving music scene with Le Diplomate leading the way. Grammy Award winning Kora player, Toumani Diabate, along with his symmetric orchestra, play there regularly. The place filled up quickly with locals and travelers alike. I laughed. I danced. I drank too much. We hopped into a taxi sometime between 12-1am, and by this time, the police had setup roadblocks at all major intersections throughout the city.
These “routine” stops are used to extract bribes from foreigners, as well as wealthy Malians. Our charge was not carrying our passports (we didn’t want to risk losing them while out on the town). We went back and forth with the officer for a good twenty minutes. We explained to the officer that we knew our rights and that we hadn’t committed a crime – strike one. Rich offered to get out and wait while the driver took me to fetch our passports – strike two. We eventually threatened to call our embassy – strike three. He responded by telling us to get out of the taxi and into his van, headed for jail. We said no.
Instead of letting Rich handle it, I piped up. I was intoxicated and therefore, held nothing back. The officer didn’t know what to do with a young, over-the-top, loud mouthed, little redheaded American girl, such as myself. Much to my surprise, putting on a scene worked, and he let us go with a firm warning. Phew.
Rich later admitted that had I been someone else, he probably would have told me to shut-up. My response to that: You’re welcome. Next time I’ll save myself and let him learn the hard way. Men.
