Djembe photos.

Here they are!

Chance encounters.

I'm getting pretty good at introducing myself to strangers. This pleases me, as I have made rewarding connections in this fashion. Also, normally I'm quite shy about so joining a group at random, so this marks a big improvement.

If it weren't for being social, I would not have heard about Yeredon, the school for dance and drums. (This happened about a week ago.) If I hadn't heard about Yeredon, I would not be the proud owner of a djembe.

That's right: I bought a djembe. And a sweet case to go with it. Photos will be posted tomorrow. Learned the rhythms to four dances so far, which should be enough to get me started as accompaniment for some African classes back home. (I wouldn't expect to get paid -- just show me the rhythms and I'll play for you for free. This seems to be a common arrangement.)


My drum instructor (on the right) playing checkers with a local drum student.

After my drum lesson today, I went to La Relax, a patisserie/restaurant in the Hippodrome district (an area of Bamako popular for its discotechques). Rather than sit by myself, I caught the eye of two foreigners that were about my age and asked if I could join.

People I meet here are endlessly fascinating. So far it's been an even split between research workers, Peace Corps volunteers, and non-profit interns/employees. The two women I met today were of the last category; one works in co-op development and the other works in gender equality. They hail from Quebec. The Canadian government is sponsoring their work here through funding development non-profits in Africa. The woman in gender equality will be here for one year, taking a break from a Master's in international development. They have both traveled around the world extensively (although not together -- they just met recently). We enjoyed sharing our experiences, talking about travel, and commiserating over challenges of life in Bamako.

Sidenote: It's probably due to the circles I run in, but there seems to be a large ex-pat / foreign aid worker community in Bamako. Given the high level of development for a West African city, this shouldn't surprise me; Cameroon and here are probably the most popular francophone countries. Still, it's been interesting to encounter so many white people. A very different experience from Brazzaville, where I would only occasionally meet a Frenchman with a passion for African music. I've enjoyed many engaging conversations about the nuances of international development. One thing is for sure: it's not for me. I am not ruling out the possibility of working internationally, but I would almost certainly go batshit crazy working for the prototypical African NGO. Too much crap dealing with politics, social dynamics, inertia, etc., both among fellow workers and the management staff.

By the end of our 2-3 hour dinner chat, we were exchanging phone numbers and making plans to meet tomorrow. They're getting together with other friends for a nice dinner (goat cheese ravioli! mmmm...) and then tentative plans to hit up Le Diplomat, one of the dance venues in town well known for its live music.

Had I not made eye contact and said "Hello," I would still be searching in vain for some company tomorrow evening. I don't like going out to these dance places by myself -- I get too stuck in my own head. Also, it's easier to rally for an outing at 11pm when there are other people involved.

Yikes. One day left in Africa. My emotions are mixed. Definitely ready to go home, see all my friends and loved ones, get back to school, etc. This has been an amazing time. It is the transition to a different kind of life that has me not entirely gung-ho about the return. I have grown accustomed (relatively) to the traveler's life. To living in Africa (relatively). Oh well. There's a time and place for all things. The time for this chapter of my life rapidly draws to a close. I am glad that I can close it with nothing but contentment and awe at this incredible experience.

A day in Brazzaville.

The week started off with a genuine kick in the ass: two-hours of African dancing with Goga, my dance instructor. When you dance African with 100% effort, it’s a friggin’ aerobic workout. I’m glad I did Insanity for the past two months, feeling prepared to handle the energy output required for the dance. He is constantly pleased with my passion, my fast learning, my desire for a challenge, and my base skill as a dancer. I think it’s fun for him, working with someone so eager to study African and executing it well.

We always draw a crowd during our sessions. The rhythmic thumping of a drum accompaniment serves to advertise the commencement of our rehearsal. We spent a little over an hour running through the dances for last time and refining the movements.

Shirtless and dripping with sweat, he beams a smile at me and says something in French. “He wants to know if you finished,” a bystander translates. (The person’s name is Master Cool, as a random aside. What he did to deserve the epithet, perhaps I will never know.)

“No! Press on! More! Kassa-kassa!” I shout. (It means “energy” in Lari.) Goga’s face lights up and he shouts back, “Kassa-kassa!” shaking his fists in front of him as if ready for a fight. “Kassa-kassa!” I return one last time, then we’re on to more dancing.

Lunch of bread+avocado, plus many bananas and oranges. And a couple blocks of chocolate.

Accidentally napped for an hour. Then it’s off to my drum lesson. My teacher was pleased with how quickly I’d pick up the rhythms. It is clear, however, that drums are less intuitive than dance for me. My mild dyslexia gets in the way, so that about a minute into maintaining a rhythm, my hands get confused and mix everything up. Then I have to stop and reset.

We will do a performance of my work before I leave. When I spoke with Goga later in the evening, he said he is so happy working with me. Said he was willing to work for a discount because I bring such energy to the lesson. Also, that I would be ready to tour by the end of our time together. Some of that is probably blowing sunshine up my ass – there’s no way I could compete with the professional-caliber African dancers out there – but boy howdy it sure does feel good.

--

At my request, we visited a supermarket downtown. It really was like a supermarket, albeit a small one by American standards. Wandering through the aisles, I reminisced of home. Normally I despise supermarkets, i.e. Walmart, and all that they stand for, but I’ve even come to miss these paragons of capitalism from the States. There is something comforting about the wide range of available foods, from jams and dark chocolate to crackers and frozen dinners. All with fancy packaging. When your normal source of salt comes in a small plastic pouch of plastic wrap, it is surprisingly pleasant to see a container properly labeled “Salt.” Or “sal,” as they say. (I think.)

I ate cheese for the first time in 2.5 months. A gouda chevre. Tears came to my eyes, so overwhelmed was I with emotion at the explosion of dairy flavor in my mouth.

--

Later that evening…

Journaling with a handful of children perched around me, whispering in Lari and French. It’s about 8:30 pm; the compound is dark for lack of electricity. Drawn to the soft glow of my laptop like moths to a lamp, they crowd around the chair. All I’m doing is journaling. It’s not particularly interesting, yet they are fascinated with the process. (They did get quite excited when I showed them the photo from Friday of me with Pierrick, Manaset, Spirit, & co.) Listening to Zoe Keating, which reminds me of home. I feel much more centered today.

A dream come true?

Jean, tied up in an all-day workshop, encouraged me to find someone to keep me company during the day. I pinged Pierrick, who offered to pick me up in downtown and hang out. I met him and his friends, who then whisked me off to Bakongo, their neighborhood. Bakongo is only a couple kilometers outside of downtown and is the artistic hub of Brazzaville. It houses the Marche Totale, a sprawling flea/farmers market that is famous in the city. You can buy just about anything there, you just need to wade through the endless procession of knockoff handbags, shoes, and clothing.

We sat down for drinks at an outdoor café/restaurant. There are many of these such cafes around, typically just a covered space with plastic tables and seating.

Hanging out at these places appears to be a national pastime of Congo. As I’ve come to discover, there are people that just spend their entire day sitting in the shade, shooting the shit with whomever happens to join them. They are not independently wealthy or inept, they’re probably just unemployed and have nothing else to do. It’s interesting to observe the hobbies of a people that have intermittent electricity access and cannot afford books, computers, TV, etc. I imagine that passing time without spending money can be quite challenging.

Back to my story. We are soon joined by a small gang of other friends. Fortunately, one in the midst, Manaset, speaks English almost fluently and was friendly and eager to translate. With his aid, we talked about Congo, its people, native languages, musicians, drums, etc.




Pierrick then asks me if I’m ready to learn drums. I wasn’t sure if I understood him correctly.

“Your drum lessons. Ready?”

Uh. Yes. Absolutely. Abso-freakin-lutely. Then we’re off to the more residential part of Bakongo, an area populated by compounds surrounded with tall concrete walls. This has been a common style of urban planning in Africa. Being intensely family-oriented, people often elect to live in compounds with their extended family. The walls are presumably to ward off thieves, judging from the barbs or broken glass that adorn the top.

We arrive at a compound and enter into a space that could have been Mr. Miyagi’s had he been African. A couple of trees, drums lining one side, and a wide, cleared space at its center to accommodate dancing.

Pretty soon I’m into my first drum lesson, learning how to play the ngoma (a ~4-ft tall drum with diameter of maybe 12”). It is the traditional drum of Congolese dance.

I spent three or four hours there, learning from my teacher (he was the seated man in the far right of the picture), and watching a dancer’s rehearsal. The rehearsal interrupted my lesson, but I was okay with it because I was treated to a showing of many different Congolese dances. (Each dance is determined by the rhythm and has a story behind it; for example, Assombi is an energetic dance originally performed in preparation for war.) I even worked in some video, which I hope to eventually post for private viewing. The highlight was the dance instructor, a rather haggard man of probably 50 or 60 years, a many whose time in the African sun has not aged him favorably. No number of years could prevent this man from dancing. When he demonstrated for his pupils, he did so full-out, moving with a finesse and grace that lived just beneath the surface of his apparently decrepit frame.

By the conclusion of the evening, we had established a plan. I would move in with Manaset and his family, who live in the neighborhood, and take lessons every day in drum and dance from local artists.

This may be a dream come true.