THIS IS AFRICA

I've learned many phrases that go with the typical salutation in Guinea. What made me wonder in the beginning is why a big percentage of them, focus on the phrase "Have you slept well ?". Down the line I found out that there is a well populated menu of choices when it comes to having a bad night's sleep. Whether is the mosquitoes, or the malaria you got from them, whether the money that is never enough, or a suffering member of your big family. In my case, it was the heat, and the impossibility of cooling down, when there is no electricity, it was the neighbor's dogs that kept barking and howling their anxiety and loneliness for the whole night, and most of all the endless loops my brain went into when trying to resolve the complex rhythms and solos I was learning. The obsessive nature of my psyche is like an automatized surgery table that with evil mechanical arms, grasps any tiny fragment of reality it runs into, and works hard to systematically dissect it down to its minuscule components and then rejoice from above over and over again in the magnificent layout of encyclopedic order it has created. It was unmerciful. The solos Sekou was teaching me, kept banging over and over again in my head, stumbling in the middle of the most absurd dreams. Fencing with green dragons, or roller coasting down a fountain of honey. There, all languages of color, song and symbol translated into those three beautiful and fundamental sounds : bass, slap and tone, that my djembe reproduced and arranged themselves in ever changing patterns that always ended up on the same message.
And so, with this messianic mission stirred in my blood, I woke up to the sound of my alarm and headed for my daily instruction. The lessons I took on the preceding days proved very frustrating. For times, I flowed learning all of the phrases Sekou was teaching me. But for other moments, I got stuck in a single phrase and sometimes for half an hour, Sekou and the other guy that made the accompaniment with the doun douns, kept unsuccessfully trying to ram them into me. Fortunately, I was lucky enough to bring a portable digital recorder amongst my high end recording equipment. After asking Sekou for permission to record, I got into the habit of asking him to record the whole accompaniment, arrangement or solo he was teaching me, so in case I got stuck, I could analyze it at home with patience and relaxation. The night before, I have been rambling over 2 hours on a 5 bar solo passage, with very few subdivisions, but that made no sense to me, until I finally memorized it to perfection, but at the cost of a troublesome night's sleep.
As I headed out to the usual routine, I walked by the foula shops that sell all kinds of things in the most restricted of spaces, saw all the boys and girls wearing the uniforms, headed for school. I also walked by the furniture manufacturers that carve, assemble and sell their wooden furniture on the street. You see one bed after another, and an armoire after the other, in a long line along the road, for meters and meters. I passed the meat shops, that had their freshly slaughtered pieces on display, and the butchers sitting on the side slapping the millions of files away. I passed next to the "Obama" Gallery (photo of the American president included) where you could buy all you needed for your household.
That day, since the rehearsal space was reserved on the usual time slot by another company, Merveille was sort of scheduled to rehearse at 11, 2 hours later than normal. I so arranged with sekou to take a djembe class around 9 in the morning, then head for the rehearsal, then have lunch and finally the afternoon dun dun class. After dodging all of the road obstacles, I made it to Dixin, walked down the rough street and got my daily greeting from the kids on the road. Sometimes I smile and shake the kids hands. But sometimes, I just get sick of all the "Eh Fote !!!" in sousou or "Porclottttt" in Fula or the elaborate "AHHH Tubabuuuu" in Malinke. I get grumpy and in my insides I say in spanish : "Fote fote y la fote que te re mil pario !!!!!!!". More often than not I do question what in the freaking world took me to take this crazy journey, being so comfortable in NY with a descent job, and amazing girlfriend, a great car, my music projects, all the exotic foods I could afford, the ever increasing list of friends. I try to find comfort in the fact that I am not the first and hopefully not the last to embark on this. I met many Westerners from different countries in Conakry, that share some of the same griefs and admiration for this strong people. They share how their bodies, hands (in case of the musicians) and feet (in case of dancers) hurt. Of how hard the training is. Of how sick they get from the food, malaria, water, the hassling.... I sat in a concrete bench on the street right in front of Balaket's house. We usually took the lessons, on that house's patio. Balaket is one of the prime djembe soloist at the "Merveille" ballet. A guy with pointy features, a small and fibrous body and hands that could easily turn diamonds into dust, just by rubbing . The past friday night he was telling me about his story, and I listened passionately, trying to make out his heavy french, and dodging the ethilic ghostly fumes that came out of his drunken breath. He started playing when very little, around the age of five. By the age of fifteen, he seriously decided to pursue music, and dropped off school, to join one of the ballets. I remember every detail of how he explained, almost crying, how one day his family would recognize his struggle, when he became a big name in music, and appeared in album covers. His hands, had an unusual softness and choreographically added to the scenes. Immediately, while he offered to escort me on the dark street, to get a cab, he begged me for some money for dinner.
And so I was sitting in the bench, waiting for Sekou and the others to arrive, questioning all orders of life. Observing an abandoned plastic tea pot used for bathing and understanding why they say that developed nations use far more resources than underdeveloped ones. I remembered how little water it took me to bath, literally, just 3/4 of that tea pot, in comparison, to the litters I must be using at my room's shower. Or how orders of life reversed here. How you where maybe at the starting point of the journey of prime materials, that would end in some fancy western table. How here more than anywhere else, medicines where needed, but there was no money. How at the same time, families need to be numerous, so more can contribute to the household and how this was contributing to overpopulation. But how can you change this mindset ? Condoms and contraception seem like a ridiculous concept when you barely have money for rice. I also started to look at the houses, and wondered if I would grab a typical American house and put it next to one of these, and then X-rayed into it, how much stuff would I find on them, and what would the story be of each one of those objects. I saw 2 kids, sitting on the floor, arranging some used cans of tomato sauce in a line, and playing with a bottle cap, trying to make it land on them and remembered the kids on the fancy new york toy shop demanding the latest tranformers action figure. It is only US$20, but with US$20 these people can eat for a month. And in the middle of this revolving pond of thought, there I was, waiting for sekou, with my big djembe on the side. Different. Tired and a little frustrated. For a moment I thought that something in my spirit makes me need to fall into these situations. Of always being different. It must be a pattern that was carved into me in my childhood. Moving from place to place, from culture to culture, never staying on schools for more than a year. If I wasn't a boy in school in canada with a mexican accent, I was a kid in second grade in Argentina with a canadian accent. If I wasn't the only jewish boy in the whole classroom of the afternoon shift class, I was allways 1 year older than the others, or 5 years younger than my classmates at english school. And then, If I wasn't the only cumbia player from a mid class background instead of the typical slumbs, I was the only guy in my music college year that was studying percussion, and so the pattern goes on. A destiny to always be different, and pursue that difference.
Maybe it's a little of our Argentinian psyche, where we feel like europeans who have been stripped by some evil destiny of the land and fate we deserved, where we don't know who the heck we are in this world. Where we think we are too good to be part of latinamerica, yet try to fill in "hispanic" in an employment application for an american company, hoping to fall within the quota of minorities. Where for generations musicologists have tried to erase or hide the african origin of our folk rhythms. Where in many conversations with people from other countries we would say, by collective ignorance or intentional omission, "as a difference from other latinamerican countries, there are no black people in Argentina...". I guess things kind of evened out when I got to New York. After all, in that city we are all muts. Despite, some people being amazed of my Argentinean / Canadian / jewish / caucassian / ashkenasi / sefaradi / musician / computer programmer / electronics technician background.....
And before my brain-tank overflowed with my sewer thoughts, a gentle breeze made me notice a notebook that was lying next to me on the bench. It was a school notebook, written in script letter. Some of the pages where ripped. I started to delve into the pages, and tried to decode the french writing. There where pages with exercises on mathematical proportion rules, then notes on french grammar and some technical sketches. Something that called my attention where some pages dedicated to authors. I recall some dates and a summarized view of the historic moment, but what caught most my attention where some quotes that said something like "...was renowned for one of his passages : 'It is black blood that flows in my veins and as such it is this blood that makes me proud, this color that gives me life.....' " ... For a moment I relaxed, and somehow found some inspiration on those thoughts. I thought again about the crazy "African time Machinery" that mysteriously made me encounter this notebook. I remembered the giant statue on one of the roundabouts, showing an African man, braking his chains of slavery. Then the night when we visited "le Palace du people" and I stared amazed at one of the big paintings that dominated the wall of the hall. It showed A fula Men on the right, wearing his traditional garments and holding a high a flaming torch, a Malinke man on the center, wearing an unbuttoned shirt, down to the knee pants, and playing a magestic Djembe and a SouSou woman, on the right, with her traditional clothes, a big bunch of wheat under her right arm and a harvesting scythe on the left hand held high. They where all looking towards the horizon. On the ground where broken chains and behind them a big sunrise. I remembered a little bit of Guineas Modern History. It goes something like this, although some facts may be inaccurate. Sekou Toure, a man coming from a poor background, from a Malinke Family, became a very important Trade Unionist that led the fight for independence. In 1958, Charles de Gaulle, the then French Head of state, offered many west African french colonies the option between autonomy as separate countries in a franco african community with french economic support or Immediate independence. Most countries chose the former, but Guinea chose independence and that carved a very different destiny. Sekou Toure declared that "Guinea Preferred freedom in poverty than prosperity in chains..." . Toure became a legend across Africa in his time and Guinea's first president. What followed was an attempt to establish a socialist state. The rest is to be saught in the history books, where you will most likely see references to Toure's reign of terror, then Lansana conte's coup take over, and all the failed policies and economic suffering. But what is important to notice is that what was institutionalized on those days, as on many socialist countries, was the need to strengthen national identity, and to pursue a cultural agenda that would showcase Guinea's people and their tradition. In this environment, companies like the "Ballet Africans" and "Ballet Djoliba" where born. Contests where held in all villages of all backgrounds across the nation, so each would showcase their best musicians and dancers. Out of these the best of the best where chosen and placed on the ranks of these ballets. The purpose was to create a company that would show to the world the greatness of this nation's culture. The ballet trained hard night and day, for more than 8 to 12 hours. Perfecting and enhancing in an artistic fashion all of these traditional dances, songs and rhythms. The company would also travel from village to village and record or take every particular dance or ritual. The ballet toured the world and amazed all spectators with the dexterity and intensity of its performers . Out of this cradle emerged renown musicians like Mamady Keita, Famoudou Konate and my own teacher Mbemba Bangoura. It was thanks to them and to ballet africans that the world got to know the amazing music of this country and an inspiration for embarking on this trip. This made Guinea a unique place, where folkloric dance and music is held strong in the national psyche, and the quality of the musicians and dancers is amongst the best.
And so I remembered that painting again at the "palace du peuble" (the people's palace) and also remembered the paintings of the socialist era where the workers and the people are the main characters represented. I remembered the work of Diego Rivera, and his mural painting, with the concept of Art displayed big for everybody to see it and representing the glory of a nation's people and not only some wealthy Burgess in an expensive gallery.
At 9:30 Sekou showed up, and told me we needed to move the class somewhere else. Somebody had died a few houses away, and as respect, we could not be playing anywhere in the vicinity. We arrived at the warehouse where the ballet rehearses and we headed to the back yard. That space is shared with an elementary school. A few meters away, a bunch of guys where sitting on the floor surrounding another one, that was fractionating marijuana in small packages. I didn't understand what we were doing there, but sekou made me sit down, and started to play. I looked around at the kids looking at me, the marijuana clients looking at me, people on the street looking at me, all the curious guys that approached and surrounded me. I tried to not get distracted and listen to sekou's teachings, but couldn't avoid it. I was the town's spectacle. "The white guy that came to study djembe that cannot put 2 phrases together " I thought. The whole scene was ridiculous. I immediately asked sekou if we could move somewhere else "Why " he said... "well, everybody is staring at me !!!!" I replied...."awwww come on.... that will actually give you more courage !!!" He said.... "No sekou. I am sorry, I am not used to this. I can't do it like this..." I begged. We moved the class inside the warehouse, where another set of curious people where staring at me. I couldn't go on, and eventually, the artistic director showed up , next to other dancers and musicians and the ballet's rehearsal needed to start. I was already to the rim, with the classes on the Balaket's house patio, with people coming in and out, constantly watching and interrupting me, but this ?? Studying in the middle of the street ? I felt I was putting my hard earned money into being a deplorable spectacle and wanted to make it really clear to Sekou, that I would not study under these conditions. I felt a little bad about this, and even guilty. Maybe I should shift my whole notion of how this music is studied. Or maybe, find the compromises, but also, not go beyond things that simply do not work for me.
We started the warm up, and my hands where hurting beyond belief. I went on for a few minutes, waiting for the blood vessels to get bigger, and therefore numbing the pain. I held on for a long time and felt proud, until they started to demand more volume. Everybody was playing so loud that my individual drum was unnoticed. Eventually, I just gave up, and handed my drum to another guy. It hurted to much. I calmed myself with words of patience, knowing that eventually, I would get to it.
The dancers where practicing a series of acrobatic moves. It mainly had to deal with laying on the back, then lifting both legs and in a quick motion, impulsing one self back into a standing position. Most of the boys where able to do it, but the women where failing one after the other. Sekou started to smile at them, and took off his belt. One after the other they kept failing, and one after the other, he kept whipping them. He suddenly got excited and started whipping at the musicians that where failing in the arrangement. The blows where received with a mixture of collective laughter and screams of pain. The dancers where even turning in those who haven't received the whipping. One of the veteran female dancers started to even chase those girls who haven't' received their corrected whipping, and bringing them to Sekou, who behind a smile was negotiating with them whether to whip their hands or their buttocks.
After the hour long warm up and physical preparation ended, they started rehearsing a few numbers. After doing Mamaya, and the vigorous konkoba, the balafon player showed up and they rehearsed something they told me is "the dance of the lunatics..." . The orchestra started a furious Lamba rhythm, with a very intricate arrangement. The orchestra has 3 djembes doing accompaniment, one bass djembe doing the bass notes, 1 dunun fola playing a vertical doun doun, and another one, plaing a sangban with a ken ken bell hanging on his side. Finally, the orchestra is completed with 3 djembe soloists and a balafon (african xylophone) player. Immediately, the orchestra lowered the volume, and the balaphone layed out a complex poly rhythmic melody. All the dancers on stage and off stage started to sing in harmonized voices. Then, from the side appeared the main character of this dance. A little dancer that has acondroplastic enanism. She is as tall as my knee, but was an amazing dancer, and her character was conducting the whole scene. The rest of the dancers where all women, and one by one, passed to the center, and showcased a solo, where the state of dementia was the main subject. some very elaborate, and sometimes epileptic moves where showed, and the drum, dance exchange was incredible.
On the side, all the men, where rehearsing another number, and yet on the other side, the rest of the dancers , mostly the younger ones, some of them 5 years old, where rehearsing trying to learn the moves.
Immediately the artistic director interrupted in rage and started placing stage marks for everybody . He then went to the orchestra and next to Sekou, made changes in the arrangement and the way it was marking the dancers choreography.
At the end of the rehearsal, some women came in selling bananas and water in little bags. All artists sat around sekou and the artistic director. They gave a long speech in sousou, where I guess they where setting up goals, and the agenda.
I headed back to Balaket's house, feeling a little convoluted by the intensity of the day. I arrived at the same bench where I sat that morning, and saw, to girls hitting at each other and pulling their hairs out. Women where trying to separate them, but where unsuccessful. I intervened, and with allot of effort put them to the side. I grabbed one of them and foolishly told her "Misara ?" (what's going on ? in susu). She looked down, and as soon as I walked to the side, went slamming back to the other girl to give her hell. Then, out of one of the houses, a woman, came holding a lose piece of electric cable and dispensed a powerful whip to each one of the girls. They both immediately stopped, and tossed and turned on the dirt floor, moaning in pain.

"This is Africa ..." I thought, contemplating this other ballet, the real life one...