people are going to love this

Our last day in Mali. Phew, that was quick wasn’t it?

There we were, checking out of the hotel all bleary-eyed at half seven to be ready to leave at 8am on the dot. Rokia was already down and sitting with her Aunt, both looking immaculate in their African robes. Most kids in the street you see here and in other West African countries wear western clothes, usually faded sports tops, tracksuit bottoms, old jeans and stuff. The phrase they use to describe them is literally translated as ‘Dead White Man Clothes’ and they are far cheaper than real African materials. You buy them from the Dead White Man Shop. Not Rokia and her Aunt though, no. They were bedecked in gorgeous colours and shapes befitting their Noble status.

At ten past 8, surprise surprise, the extra bus we’d booked hadn’t come. We needed a ten seater to fit us all, and Rokia, her Aunt, her husband and her two N’Goni players. Instead, they sent a rickety van with no air conditioning and barely any more room than the eight seater we’d had all week. We ended up rebooking the first car to have as well, and we split ourselves between the two vehicles and set off for the market to buy the gifts Rokia needed to arrive with. When we reached the hubbub of the square there were reminders all around me that even though I was peering out the window of my air conditioned 4X4 (no prizes for guessing which vehicle I’d installed myself in) that most inhabitants of this city had nothing, and no prospect of ever having anything materially. There were dusty people carrying seemingly unsellable merchandise round and round the square, one young man was pale orange from the thick coating of dust that covered him literally head to toe. The only break in the monotony of that colour were the two swollen, raw, red eyes that squinted and stung as he picked his way among the chaos.

We soon had our customary bag of Cola nuts and were off again on a remarkably well tarmacked road. It was so smooth that our, by now quite irritating, dozy, too-young-for-this-powerful-vehicle driver got totally carried away and sped up ridiculously. Little did he know the wrath of Rokia and her Aunt and just about everyone else in the car, that he was going to bring down on his head. He slowed down for a while and sulked in his beach-hat the rest of the way. He didn’t make it all the way there without more lickings though, especially when he answered his mobile phone and began chatting as we sped along. Foolish boy.

I was having my own drama. Having called Indy’s school to check she’d got there on time (I do that from time to time as when she stays at her Mum’s her whole routine goes out the window and it drives me mad) the school informed me that Indy hadn’t been in since last Thursday when her Mum picked her up. Now this is where I get really upset, that ‘miles away and powerless to sort it out’ feeling. I called her flat in London and Indy answered the phone sounding fine. But tired. She’s clearly not been to bed earlier than eleven all weekend and had been too run down to drag herself out of bed for school. Now she was home with the cleaner, watching some DVD with the noise of the Hoover in the background. It really depressed me. I texted her Mum that it wasn’t fair to let a nine year old miss so much sleep that she couldn’t make it to school and that she should be an adult blah blah blah. It goes in one ear and out the other, and it took a while for me to let it go and drag myself back into the moment. Indy will be with me in two weeks. Then she’ll be coming all the way round the world with us for 5 months. Relax.

The village was about ten times the size of Sapho, where we’d witnessed the mask dance. It actually had it’s own mud and brick built streets. We had to make the rounds with Rokia and her family from house to house to follow the same ritual of greeting and paying respects before we could go to her late Grandfather’s place. When we sat down in these courtyards, we shook hands with everyone present and a series of quick fire call and answer blessings was recited. A small bag of Cola nuts was donated at each stop, and we would never be seen out. It’s important here not to walk your guests to their car, your spirit has to stay with you in your courtyard.

Eventually we got to her Grandfather’s place where she used to play as a child. Rokia explained how much this place meant to her and how it was one of her last connections to this village. It was the perfect place to write the song and film it, so we set up the gear on the boot of the jeep and got busy.

First, we did an experiment filming the N’Goni players. We kept the locked-camera (still) steady and filmed the kids wandering around a shady tree. Then we fixed the musicians in the same area so that when we cut it we can fade the children in and out like spirits. Might look good. Might look dreadful. Who knows.

We were getting hungry and soon Duncan dared to ask them to find some bread and meat. Some one went off to find some and it came back all wrapped in paper. The chewiest lamb you ever ate. My jaw muscles could lift weights now after that experience.

Meanwhile, Rokia had her walkman on and was scribbling down lyrics to the backing track in her ears. It was so cool to see her taking the process so seriously. We’d talked earnestly about the possible themes and she was clearly getting right into it. Then, just as the light got perfect, she was ready, and we set her up in front of the crumbling house as kids from all directions who had just been let out of school, began lining the yard, peering over walls, and climbing over each other to get a glimpse of their local heroine and the weird white guys.

As we filmed, each take became more passionate and expressive. She has the most elegant hands which sing their own songs while she expresses the lyrics from her deepest place. Everyone was spellbound and they couldn’t even hear what me and Duncan were getting in our headphones. She added a few harmonies too which were also sublime and I kept thinking, ‘people are going to love this. Millions of people are going to enjoy this very moment we’re witnessing for years and years.’

We left the village as the sun was finally sinking below the horizon with all the kids laughing and waving and running after us through the dust and haze. Another perfect moment. Another few hours of dozing in satisfaction ahead, waiting for my phone signal to reappear so I could call Jessica and let her know about the day. My slumber was cut short though as once again our now arrogant and plain rude young driver had offended everyone in the vehicle and he was getting a right old scolding from all sides. It had also turned out that they’d totally ripped us off on the other van and charged us double too, there was going to have to be words with his boss when we got back.

The drive seemed much longer and the clock was ticking on our flight. Some repacking had to be done and the usual cramming suitcases and gear into barely roadworthy taxis ensued. As we stood in the queue for our Air France flight to Paris it dawned on us, buckling under our hand luggage, how exhausted we were. I looked at Duncan and he at me and we felt we’d aged ten years. We hadn’t had a day, or even an hour off since London and we were about to do a night flight and then straight into a session with Dave Randall when we arrived in France. Just as we were on the last passport check before getting to our comfy Economy seats, a military, shaved-headed guard started tutting at our passports. We waited patiently. We waited some more. Then he turned and said there was a problem. We hadn’t had our visas stamped properly on the way in, and it was our problem not his. Did he want a bribe, was he just dropping his hook in the river to see if we’d bite, or wriggle off? Our fatigue was growing with the tantalisingly close wet-wipe and mini bag of peanuts. The two cameras and laptop on my back were digging into my shoulder. Duncan’s hands were numb from the plastic handle of his clip case.

They let us through.