In western Africa, there is a landlocked country of Mali, about 1/7th the size of India, a large portion of its land is made up of the largest desert on the world, the Sahara. A river, the Niger cuts across the country passing the river port town of Mopti to undertake a journey into the heart of the Sahara. Just South-east of Mopti the river’s flood plains rise gently into a large plateau that end dramatically in the cliffs of a Bandiagara.
In these cliffs, at their edge and base inhabited an ancient people called the Dogons. In 2001, I had started a Masters in Architecture in France. During which I worked to build a school with a Dogon village of Begnematou. In 2004, I got an opportunity to go back to the region to continue my work to build more classrooms and another school.
They found it very intriguing that somebody all the way from India had come to their region. India was the land of films, of Vijay and Jimmy, heroes from our yesteryear Bollywood films, they loved the song and dance routines and often could sing entire songs ad verbatim. Often their joy knew no bounds, they were seeing a real Indian, one that looked exactly like an Indian for the first time!
The cliffs of Bandiagara was a UNESCO World Heritage site and attracted lots of European development and culture practitioners and aid. I was attached to the Cultural Mission of Bandiagara and every fortnight a pickup van would make the journey to the river port town of Mopti for folks like me to pick up supplies. We went as a group and the vehicle would only return in the evening, giving me some time to explore Mopti. I had befriended a local tailor through the school contractor and after killing the harsh afternoon in his cosy tailor shop I would head out to explore parts of Mopti. He told me of a boat building yard giving me directions of how to get there. You can take some good photos, he typically added at the end of each recommendation.
Mopti was a small buzzing town and finding the boat yard wasn’t very difficult. A large covered shed, artisans were sitting on the floor and each seemed to work on one particular set of parts, one of them was only fabricating nails, somebody else some other specific component. They were busy at work and when I asked them if I could take a few photos, they just directed me towards their boss without even looking at me. Their boss, was sitting behind a table at one end of the hall, she had her hair beaded up and tied up in a flower printed scarf and adorned in large flowing dress, a young lady boss, quite unusual. I excused myself and requested if I could take some photos. She too did not look at me and simply said in the beautiful Malian accented French, “No! Eh we don’t entertain white folk”. I was a bit taken aback, plus a little desperate, it seemed like I would have to fight back, “Aah yes — white! You think I am white — did you see my skin, this looks white to you” I responded pointing out the skin on my forearm. There was a pause, she slowly looked up, there was mischief in her eyes, “Eh yes, you are not white ah, then where are you from therefore?” This could go any way, “Madame! India, is not evident, see my skin, is it any close to white?” I played mock hurt. Now I could sense that the whole shed had stopped working, put their tools down and were perked up, watching the fun unfolding. She was now looking straight into my eyes, full drama was on “Aaah yes! You are Induu. Aaaah yes! You are Induuu. Aaaaah yes! You are Induuuu” she paused, “Then dance!”
The shed was in pin-drop silence, seemed like even the buzzing flies had stopped, the din of the surrounding market had paused! “Whaaat! Dance, no-no-no, I cannot dance, they may dance in the movies, but that does not mean every Indian can dance.” I hoped she would see the logic. But she would have none of it. “Induuu, then dance,” she was clearly enjoying herself. Some of her staff, by now, were on their haunches. I was dumbfounded, she didn’t give much time either, “Aah yes, we know, we see the movies, if you are Induu — dance!” I could imagine making a fool of myyself dancing to this eager audience, “Oh Madame, oh madam, all Indians don’t dance” I pleaded. She kept looking at me with a tilt of her head, this was getting to be embarrassing. A lovely smile broke out, her eyes lit up and she burst out in peals of laughter, the whole shed was rolling over and so was I, though I was laughing initially more out of relief. With a wave of hand she told me I could shoot what I want. The artisans were beaming and we had a great time making photographs, and memories, mostly of them working, it was the age of slides and I was frugal in my exposures. As I wrapped up, I thanked her and we laughed heartily as I left saying a lot of goodbyes to the artisans.
During this period that extended to six years in addition to Mali, I also got an opportunity to travel to other West African nations, both francophone and anglophone, Hindi commercial cinema was deeply loved across and in the rural and remote parts where I was working, people were seeing a real Indian from India for the first time. There were many other areas of fascination, Indian’s mastery over black magic, why India didn’t play in the FIFA World Cup, Indian hero’s and especially heroines’ textiles, medicines and India’s strides in computers. I remember in a social gathering at Niamey, the capital of Niger, someone from the hosts side sang the entire Qurbani number on a high pitch, especially since there was a real Indian gracing the occasion. It felt really special being Indian though I often wondered whether I will ever be able to shower this kind of spontaneous affection to a West African if I were to meet him/her in Delhi.
Cut to 2013, I was exhibiting photographs at the India International Centre gallery in New Delhi, and was scheduled to give a talk. I was excited. I was on the Metro and picked some west African sounding French. I waited for the young guy to finish his call and asked him in my version of Mali-accented French, how he was doing and where he was from. After some initial surprise and hesitation, the conversation got going. He was from Congo and was a student in Delhi. I expressed my hope that he was not having too tough a time in Delhi, especially with my fellow Indians. He was quiet for some time, he said “Since I have come to India, I wonder whether Indians are not taught geography well. In school, we learnt about Asia and other parts of the world, the countries and their capitals. But here when I meet people they don’t know anything about Africa. Africa for them is South Africa, or at most Kenya and then gorillas, chimpanzees and…” he stopped.
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