f78 The Road To Niafunké
Producer Nick Gold recalls his first visit to Ali Farka Touré’s home town in Mali in 1991.
and The River) and I’d spent a lot of time with him – in the studio, on tour and hanging out. He’d talked a lot about Mali and in particular his home village Nia- funké, in the Timbuktu region. Looking back I’m amazed it took me so long to take up his invitation, which he’d made repeatedly since I met him at Heathrow off his first flight to the UK in 1987.
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I didn’t have much idea what to expect as I arrived at Bamako airport armed with very little French, some sun cream, a camera and a tiny portable DAT recorder. Exiting the plane I was dazed by the intense dry heat but as I set foot on the tarmac there was Ali, even larger than his usual larger-than-life. With his all-con- quering smile and dressed in double denim (with rubber lattice-patch details) he lifted me up into a huge bear hug while someone in uniform took my bag and passport. Ali marched through customs and immigration while I followed behind as an official was rebuked for daring to ask for my papers – “Il est avec Farka!”
y first trip to Mali (and Ali’s home) was in March 1991. We had recorded and released two albums together (Ali Farka Touré
I was still in a daze as we drove from the airport to Ali’s family home in Lafi- abougou. That evening I was treated extremely kindly by the Bamako branch of the family and I suspect the room I slept in was Ali’s own which he’d vacated for me. Early the next morning the household was awake and preparations were being made for the trip to Niafunké. Ali had a blue Peugeot 204 into (and onto) which he was packing an enormous cargo with the easy expertise with which he did everything. Just as we were leaving, two travelling companions squeezed into the back. I was introduced to Afel Bocoum, Ali’s second singer, guitarist and letter writer, and Hamma Sankare, his calabash player. Ali whispered a prayer and we were off.
Ali drove fast and expertly through what appeared to me to be a landscape devoid of landmarks – rugged, dusty ter- rain – ‘off road’ more often than on. Sometimes we would have to wait for a two-car ferry or wade through the Niger at shallow points, pulling the ‘Peug’ behind us with ropes. Everywhere we went Ali had friends, fans or family (or all three). Over the customary glasses of gun- powder tea, Ali would chat animatedly with whoever was around. This was a jour-
Hamma Sankare, Nick Gold and Ali – on the road in Mali, 1991
ney he had made many hundreds of times before (from when he first started as a chauffeur in his late teens).
The Peugeot was old and had no air conditioning but windows had to remain closed otherwise we would be covered in a thick layer of red dust. The cassette play- er did work, however. Ali would pick up a tape, tap it forcefully on the dashboard to dislodge sand and dust and snap it into the deck. We had an unbroken soundtrack of loud, distorted, locally produced tradi- tional Songhai and Peul ngoni music punctuated by blasts of Dimi Mint Abba (from Mauritania) and Abdel Aziz El Mubarak (from Sudan).
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n Djenne, Ali was asked to give a concert. “Of course. Why not? Ins Allah,” came the response. Within hours, as Ali (inexplicably dressed in a winter jacket at midday) talked with the imam of the mosque, small boys ran around loudly announcing the con- cert. That evening I witnessed my first concert by Ali in Mali. Everyone knew all the songs and an MC directed applause to particular guitar solos, gestures or expres- sions. Ali gave his fee to Afel and Hamer. That night we slept in the open air on a rooftop to be awoken the following morning by the burning sun.
Back on the ‘road’ and driving with one hand on the wheel, Ali aimed his rifle into the distance and shot a couple of rab- bits. Towards the end of the day, now cov- ered head to toe in red dust, we rumbled towards the banks of the Niger with a flat tyre. We looked at the water, and waded in. It was bliss. Then Ali lit his little Calor gas canister and we had the most welcome extra-sweet coffee I have ever tasted. Ali fixed the tyre with pit-stop efficiency and we rolled off into Niafunké.
We stopped at Ali’s mother’s house. It was dark inside and Ali knelt down next to her and beckoned me over. She took my hands in hers and brought them to her cheek and said a few words. “Now you’re protected,” Ali said, and that’s what it felt like. We moved on to Ali’s place, where we were greeted by a full house including his six children and his wife Fatouma.
Photo: Afel Bocoum
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