We live in the quartier of Bamako called Hippodrome, and Sunday we went to the Hippodrome for the first time. It was the final race of the year, the Grand Prix de la Nation. We didn't realize it was invitation-only, but a friend of a friend has a brother who owns racehorses, and as a result had lots of invitations to share. This friend of a friend stuffed us into his shiny white 4x4 and drove us to the racetrack. On the way he told us that Mali was known for its excellent horses; they are unique in West Africa. Nonetheless, he said, a day at the Malian races is “probably not what you're used to seeing in the States.”

We assured him we'd been here long enough to anticipate that.

Adults needed invitations to the Grand Prix, but children were allowed in for free, and there were hundreds of them swarming around the stands. Off to the right there was a larger, unfinished grandstand, from Moussa Traore's day, when the races were at their peak of popularity. The stands actually in use were much smaller and covered with an awning. We showed our invitations and found seats behind our host's nieces and nephews and other Friends and Relations.

There were three races on the program. First were the “Petits chevaux,” then “Demi cracks,” then the Grand Prix itself, the “Cracks.” After some fanfare from the brass band, the petits chevaux came out. Most of the jockeys looked like boys in their teens. They wore mismatched silks, and instead of riding hats they wore baseball hats and ski caps. There was no starting gun or flag -- in fact, I'm not sure what was their cue to start -- and they all took off in ragtag fashion. One jockey fell off on the first lap, and the horse I'd picked to win finished at the back of the pack.

Between the first and second race there was some traditional wrestling, two matches between wiry men and one match between some very small boys.

The “demi-cracks” of the second race were a little bit bigger, and the race was a little bit longer (2400 meters). I picked the winner, a pretty chestnut named Allahkabon.

Before the final Grand Prix there were more events. First was “prestation de Gros Bras,” i.e., armwrestling. Next on the agenda were some dance troups. The first troupe was composed of five small girls in white skirts and yellow t-shirts. The second troupe was two young men: One fat, one small. Within a few minutes the fat one ripped his shirt off and jiggled his flab for the crowd. It was strangely mesmerizing. I had to turn away when the smaller dancer put his mouth to the fat boy's nipple like he was nursing, but the audience seemed to love it.

I should point out that up until this point the races were, shall we say, uncharacteristic in a couple ways. First of all, everything happened on time. Secondly, it was amazingly orderly. Extrapolating from my experiences at the airport, the market, the bank, etc., I expected people to push to the front and stand in front of us. But quite the opposite happened. When some boys stood up to see the horses coming round the bend, the men behind shouted at them until they sat back down.

Things remained calm until the Grand Prix. Then the hordes of small boys that had been pressed up outside the stands started climbing in under the railing and pressing up behind us. Everyone stood for the start, and when the horses came around for the last lap, there was a mad rush onto the field. Amazingly, no one got trampled. Better yet, one of our host's brother's horses -- and my pick -- won the race.

See photos of the Grand Prix de la Nation.