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...

Numerologia Guineana

Una semana despues de llegado, habia conseguido al fin alquilar una habitacion . Djoulde echo a andar su maquinaria de contactos y me consiguio un lugar en una muy linda casa en el Barrio de Taouya. La ubicacion es ideal, porque esta a 10 minutos de Dixin, donde ensayan muchas de las companias de danza. El dueno, el senor Diallo, tenia varias habitaciones en alquiler en su casa. Todos sus hijos se habian ido ya, y muchos estaban en Europa. El senor Diallo, un hombre de unos 60 anos, panzon, con anteojos se mostro muy amable y relajado. La casa tiene un porton verde de metal, y todo tipo de sistemas de reja, que hace imposible que alguien se meta. Al entrar, hay un patio con flores y unas mesas y sillas de jardin y al fondo una cocina, semi abierta. Al costado hay un pasillo donde aparecen varias piezas entre ellas la mia. La misma tiene una reja gruesa de metal. En el interior hay una cama, un escritorio, un armario, ventilador de techo, aire acondicionado y un bano privado con inodoro, lavabo y ducha. No dude un momento en agarrarla.
Anteriormente, habiamos conseguido una habitacion en el barrio de Kaporo Rai, justo a unos metros del Taller de Tom. El barrio es muy seguro y estaba bueno la idea de tener a mis conocidos cerca. Pero lo que ofrecian era una especie de departamento de 2 ambientes, ubicado en el sotando de una casa enrome al que se accedia por una puerta reja que le daba la impresion de una carcel. El departamento tenia techos muy bajos. El dueno era un comicionado de policia con cara de Gorilla y una actitud muy autoritaria. Mientras nos mostraba el lugar se la pasaba apuntando dedos al aire comentando las cosas que le molestaba y de las que no queria ni saber. De entrada el lugar me dio una muy mala espina. Tom me habia aconsejado que lo agarre, porque estaba muy dificil conseguir buenos lugares en Conakry. Acepte, pero con mucha duda. Por esas cuestiones del destino, a djulde se le habia perdido el celular esa misma noche, donde tenia el numero del dueno, justo cuando lo tenia que llamar para confirmarle. Al dia siguiente nos dimos una escapada a la estacion de policia, para ver si lo podiamos encontrar en persona y decirle de nuestra decision. Llegamos al cuartel, y en la casilla de vigilancia, el uniformado (camisa y bermudas azul marino y el gorro reglamentario) estaba sentado con las piernas apoyadas en la ventana. Entramos al recinto y Tom saludo a un par de oficiales que conocia. Pasamos a la parte de atras del viejo edificio a un patio. Nos acercamos a una cortina, donde un oficial montaba guardia. Tras la "Cortina " estaba la oficina del comicionado. Le explicamos al guarda para que nos anuncie y cuando nos hizo la sena, abrimos la cortina y luego la puerta que estaba atras. El comicionado, estaba vestido de traje, con anteojos de lectura sentado en un sillon. La oficina estaba toda despintada, iuminada con una luz de tubo y tenia un cuadro del fallecido lansana Conte en la pared y otro de Sekou Toure. El comisionado estaba jugueteando con 3 celulares, cambiando tarjetas SIM de un lado para el otro. Mientras Djulde y Tom le explicaban la situacion, el asentia sin mirar. De repente me dio un miedo terrible y senti que iban a saltar sobre nosotros de la nada un monton de oficiales corruptos. En seguida, trate de saltar de la pesadilla y volvi a la realidad. Como no habia recibido la llamada de Djulde, el comiisonado nos explico que habia rentado el departamentito a otro candidato. Por dentro suspire de alivio y nos fuimos.
Conseguida la pieza, le pedi a Djoulde que me consiga una linea de celular. Yo tenia un aparato de sobra que me habia traido de NY. Fuimos al centro de Conakry, a ver si nos podian sacar la traba que usualmente le ponen, para poder ponerle una linea local. Entramos al negocio de "decodificacion de celulares. " Un precario local, con un mostrador de vidrio lleno de celulares de todos los modelos. En el techo la clasica luz de tubo intermitente. Un monton de clientes se amontonaban en el mostrador pidiendo servicios a los gritos. En el fondo del local note una mesa abarrotada de equipamiento electronico. Para mi sorpresa 2 jovenes chinos estaban trabajando en celulares, con pinzas de precision y lupas, mientras un gerente africano, les decia algo y el espeso humo de mil cigarillos completaba la surrealista escena.
La teconolgia, pense , toma giros inesperados en cada lugar. Pense tambien como toda la cuestion de tecnologias inalambricas estaba facilitando las comunicaciones, que de otra manera, una tecnologia basada en el tendido de cables, haria mas dificil. Asi por ejemplo, averiguamos con Tom, para poder compartir una coneccion de interent en la casa. En vez de tirarte un cable, como en otros lados, lo que tienen es una torre que transmite una muy fuerte senal de WIFI (la misma que se usa para conectar las compus de manera inalambrica) por varios barrios de Conakry. Si no podes llegar a captar la senal con tu notebook, o no tenes conexion inalambrica, solo hace falta comprar un router y agregarle una antena especial. Despues, se paga un abono mensual, y listo, se tiene acceso. Si bien, es 3 veces mas caro que en EEUU, es aunque sea un adelanto.
Otros ejemplos que se dan, son los rebusques que hay para cuando no hay luz. Se volvieron muy populares las linternas y lamparas de mesa hechas con tecnologia LED. LED significa Diodo emisor de Luz. Este componente electronico, es la tipica lucecita verde o roja, que se ve en los paneles de los televisores y otros electrodomesticos. Hace varios anos, que se esta perfeccionando la teconologia para que estos emitan una luz blanca o amarillenta, esperando algun dia, completamente reemplazar a las lampariras incandescentes. La ventaja de estos componentes, es que en vez de crear luz, a costa de calentar un filamento hasta la incandescencia, lo cual implica mucha energia; la crean mediante un mecanismo especial de fisica cuantica, que emite energia solo en el espectro de luz visible y no en el de infrarrojo (calor) y de esa manera se ahorra mucha energia y desgaste de material. En conclusion, la tencologia de LEDS permite craqr luz, ahorrando muchisima energia y con una vida util miles de veces mayor. En USA se ve varias companias que venden reemplazos de lamparitas, hechas con tecnologia de LED, que son superiores, a las lamparas de tubo de bajo consumo, con una luz mejor, menor consumo de energia y mayor vida util. Aun son muy caras. Sin embargo, aca, si bien no se ven reemplazos directos de lamparitas, las lamparas de mesa y linternas de LED, se venden a precios muy accesibles (y de calidad muy china), pero con la ventaja de que las pilas duran muchisimo mas.
Por doquier tambien se escuchan en el fondo el retumbar de los generadores o se ven en el piso baterias de coche conectadas a convertidores de continua a alterna.

Una vez gestionadas todas mis necesidades inmediatas : vivienda, celular, pase a las referidas a la musica. Tom me hizo un precio muy especial por un djembe increible de madera de Kola, que es aparentemente muy dificl de conseguir. Mbemba me termino de armar el contacto con Sekou Sano hijo del famoso Kemoko Sano, el director de Merveille de Guinee (las maravillas de Guinea), para tomar clases con el y ensayar con su grupo. .

El lunes siguiente emprendi mi rutina. Generalmente me levanto a las 7 de la manana, cuando el ventilador deja de girar, indicando que se termino la cuota de electricidad. Trepo fuera de la red antimosquito que cubre la cama y apago el espiral. Desayuno frutas, pan y algo de queso en triangulitos que compre la tade anterior. A veces me hago un mate. Tomo un coctel de medicinas chinas y suplementos vitaminicos y si ando con diarrea, la pastillita de Ciprofloxacina para aniquilar los microbios del intestino. Me encajo pantalla solar en la cara y preparo una rinonera con el bloc de notas, los anteojos de sol, el repelente para los mosquitos de la tarde , el celular y plata distribuida de la siguiente forma : un fajo billetes de baja denominacion para tirarle algo a los pobres cuando piden, en otro bolsillo otro fajo con los de mediana denominacion, para el transporte, cositas de la calle o los mangazos de los musicos y finalmente los de grande denominacion en el fondo de la rinonera para pagar las clases.

Me cargo el tambor a la espalda, trabo mi habitacion y me dirijo a la calle, cargado como un soldado, esperando a enfrentarme al dia Guineano. Camino una cuadra en una calle de tierra y llego a Route de Donka para tratar de parar un taxi. El ensayo es a las 9 de la manana. Las primeras veces me desesperaba por llegar a tiempo, solo para descubrir, que todo terminaba comenzando recien a las 10:30. Ademas descubri que tomarse un taxi a esa hora es casi imposible. Hay varias veintenas de personas esperando tomarse un transporte en sentido hacia el centro. Cada vez que para uno, se pelean por entrar. Mi situacion con el tambor, teniendo que pelearme con los locales, y encima pretender que el chofer me abra el baul en medio de ese caos tiene todas las de perder. La solucion que descubri, ademas de la de cmainarme 30 mintuos con el tambor colgado, es tomar un taxi en sentido contrario, hasta una de las terminales y de ahi tomar el taxi en el sentido deseado. Con esto, a pesar de que uso un poco mas de tiempo y plata, me ahorro la pelea y el stress.

Los guineanos desarrollaron un sistemas de comunicacion con senas para los taxis. El chofer saca una mano por la ventana y segun la sena que hace, indica hacia donde esta yendo. Una mano hacia la izquierda, indica que va a tomar la ruta de la izquierda. En el caso de estar yendo hacia el centro, indica que va a tomar route de Niger, o que va a ir hasta Medina. Una mano hacia adelante indica la Autorute y una mano, hacia adentro o sea a la derecha, indica Route de Donka. Lo mismo da para los pasajeros, cuando se le hace senas a los taxis que pasan, se les indica hacia donde uno va. Ademas, los choferes hacen otras senas, para indicar cuantos asientos disponibles tienen.

Camino por las calles de Dixin, donde muchos ninos, jugando muchas veces entre la basura o al costado de una zanja, con agua estancada hace siglos, al estilo de un mini - Riachuelo Argentino, me gritan "Fote Fote" a lo cual les girto en Susu "Misara ?" (que pasa ??) o "EH !! FORE !!!" (negro) . Llego al ensayo y me siento con los otros Dejmbefolas que me saludan y hacen chistes. La practica se da en un galpon con techo de chapa y piso de concreto lleno de agujeros. Hay un monton de personas fumando y mucha tierra en el piso. El banquito es un largo banco de madera medio alto y rechinante, que hace sostener el djembe muy dificl. Por lo general nos sentamos como 5 re apretados y cuando los solistas empiezan a pegarle, el banco tiembla de adelante para atras y hacia los costados. Es como estar navegando en medio de un mar tumultuoso. El ensayo comienza con un precalentamiento para musicos y bailarines de una hora al que llaman el "sport". Generalmente arrancan con un Kassa (ritmo Malinke) de tempo mediano (para los que no lo conocen, suena medio funkero) . A los 5 minutos que empiezan a calentarse los musculos de los percusionistas, arrancan con la velocidad y empiezan a sumar voces a contra-punto en todos los deplazamientos posibles y a un volumen ensordecedor. Los solistas empieza a intercambiar frases y se arma un verdadero pesto demoledor. El volumen en si es altisimo y Sekou y los otros musicos se la pasan pidiendome que toque mas y mas fuerte. Me resulta increible ver como los solistas pueden romper ese nivel de volumen y marcar unos solos nucleares que se escuchan por encima de los misiles que tengo a mis lados. Miro por instantes sus manos y veo como ascienden a una altura impresionante y a velocidades tremendas y sobre el cuero. Al rato mandan el Enchauffement (calentamiento) que son una serie de frases que aceleran el ritmo aun mas, haciendolo llegar a su climax para terminar con el break. Enseguida marcan el comienzo de Konkoba en estilo ballet. Cuando llega este ritmo estoy totalmente perdido. Lo estudie por varios anos, de distintas maneras, pero nunca como lo tocan aca, que es la aplicaicon practica. Empiezan a agregar un monton de voces todas en contrapunto, y un djembe bajo haciendo un monton de variaciones y pregunta - respuesta que a mis oidos terminan sonando al sonido de una persona comiendo spaghetti enfurecida. Esto se suma al eco y la resonancia del galpon. Trato de abstraerme y dehjar que los brazos me vayan solos pero enseguida me doy cuenta que me pierdo. Luego trato de encontrar el patron en una de las voces del ritmo, pero todo se confunde. Enseguida lo tengo a Sekou y a otros musicos diciendome de hacer una voz distinta cada uno, y todas super rapido. al final me quedo con la mas simple y al cabo de 45 minutos, siento que el hombro me va a explotar. Sekou entonces se entusiasma y se cuelga un djembe y le empieza a dar. Es un Malinke muy alto y fibroso y cuando toca suena tan fuerte que pareciera como si te clavaran un picahielos en el timpano. Pasamos por ritmos dja, bao, Maane, Guinea Fare, Lamban, Mamaya, Gumbe y Dununba version Takosaba. Terminamos el "Sport" y estamos todos empapados sudor. Al costado a veces tengo el solista que me mira riendose me hace un gesto con el brazo y me dice "EH fote !!!" , como diciendome "hay que tomar la sopa blanquito....". Tomo un respiro y me trato de relajar. Da la sensacion que anos de estudio no sirven para nada y que todo se empieza de cero....Ponemos los tambores al sol para que se seque la humedad, agarramos unas bolsas de agua, y luego, el staff titular de la compania, empieza a ensayar todos los actos de su espectaculo.
No dejo de fascinarme con la sincronizacion y destreza de los bailarines. La manera en que entienden tan complicados ritmos y como van hilando coreografias muy exigentes y vigorosas. Hombres y mujeres, combinan saltos acrobaticos, con imporvisaciones y pasos a veces ultra rapidos. Miran de reojo al tambor solista e intercambian todos los solos en un dialgo muy entreverado.
Al termino del ensayo me dirigo a la casa de Sekou a tomar clases particulares de Doun Doun y Djembe. Camino por el barrio de casas pauperrimas y entramos a un minusculo patio de 0.5 x 1 metro. Sekou saca unas sillas de plastico, viene otro musico con unos doun douns para acompanar la clase y empieza la instruccion. A veces sale rapido. Pero a veces me suena tan anti natural a lo que estoy acostumbrado que tengo que darle y darle duarnte media hora y puede ser que tampoco lo entienda. Paramos un rato a la tarde para comer. Vamos a la casa de una mujer del barrio y nos sentamos todos los musicos en el patio con piso de tierra, gallinas, moscas y palanganas con restos de comida al costado. Nos traen una gran palangana de arroz y otro plato con la salsa. Por lo general es pescado, pollo, carne o una especie de espinaca. Es una salsa tomatosa y espesa con mucho picante. Sekou (siempre lo hace el, supongo porque es el mayor) toma el plato con salsa y la esparce sobre el arroz limpiando el borde de las ultimas gotas con la lengua (siempre hace el mismo gesto). A mi me dan una cuchara y el resto come con la mano. Para beber, nos traen una jarra de agua fresca. El resto de la tarde estudiamos otros ritmos. Si no es en la casa de Sekou, es en la de Balaket, uno de los solistas. Sino, al costado de la casa en medio de la calle o dentro de las ruinas de una casa sin techo, atras de un puesto que vende carne asada, y donde siempre tenemos el humo en el medio de la clase despintandonos la vida de los pulmones. Al costado, un campo de tierra, donde juegan al futbol. (noto que se ponen una especie de sandalias y medias y camisetas de todos los equipos de europa y hasta de argentina)
Termina la tarde y agotado me vuelvo a Taouya. Por lo general me duelen las palmas. Al principio, se me habia hecho una ampolla asquerosa en el anular de la mano izquierda que se lleno de pus y no me dejo tocar por 2 dias. Pero poco a poco , se me van armando unos callos poderosos que me protejen de todo, me transforman y preparan. Verdaderas herramientas pesadas para esculpir las rocas del ritmo en piezas magnificas e intrincadas de noble marmol.
Antes de entrar a la casa, hago una parada en un puestito que vende te. Es un techito de chapa, con unos banquitos de madera, donde al costado tambien asan carne, llenando el ambiente con aroma a parrillada. El dueno es Fula. Lo saludo con un "Njarama" y le paso un billete de 500. El lugar tiene una temperatura muy elevada. De un termo, sirve en un vasito un espeso te oscuro. Lo pasa de un vaso a otro para armarle espuma y me lo da. Lo voy bebiendo, moviendo la lengua entre el espeso mosto,escuchando lo que los otros hombres alli sentados se comentan entre si, mientras todos vamos ahumando nuestra hombria a fuego lento en la tarde de Conakry.

The shades of gray

Mi first impressions of Conakry, was of a bunch of people living in a battered city submerged in a humongous mountain of Dirt. I knew beforehand that there are actually 3 distinctive ethnic groups: SouSou, Malinke and Fula (or Peul). To my untrained eyes, they where all the same. I asked Djulde about this. "Can you tell the difference between fulas SouSous and Malinkes ?" He said that absolutely yes. He mentioned something about the subtle difference in the skin colour, the garments, the features of the faces. While we where sitting in the backyard, late at night, we started to talk about life and all of those things you share, that try to explain in your simple words, why the creator chose to give you a life in this time in this world. The electricity in Conakry is very strictly rationed. During the whole day there is none. Then, depending on you rneighbourhood and day of the week, you can get it at 6 in the afternoon or at 12 midnight, until the morining of the other day. When one neighbourhood has electricity, the other one is dark, and the other way round. Apparently, the problem stemms from an inaddequate infrastructure . In recent years, different factors drew more and more people from the villages into the city, increasing the demand. Bad mangament and corruption, washed money away, and the electric network was unable to grow at the same pace as population. The entire economy is then shifted. Non perishable products are more in demand, like those soft cheese triangles that don't need freezing. Dairy., on the other hand, needs special management and you have to be very carefull where you buy, just to make sure that the shop has a fridge that keeps the cold for enough time. Allot of candles are sold, and most houses rely on these for the dark hours of the day. It gives certain evenings a unique feeling. Like eating on the backyard (it's too hot to eat inside), with a dim candle, the light of the stars and a beautifull silence, that is never broken by the TV that I sometimes hate so much. Many people have all sorts of generators, even solar panels on some instances. The "Autoroute" is lit entirely by lights running on batteries charged during the day with solar panels (a donation of a french company). You even have to count on making sure your portable computer's battery is charged during the hours where there is electricity, so you have power when the lights go out.
When it gets dark, the streets in Conakry turn into a different world. It's not a like its a little dark and you can see with the light from the houses, or something else. It's totally dark. One of the first dangers is falling in the ditches next to the street. You can't see them. On the streets, the cars turn into a ghostly and wild river than swooshes next to you. The little shops, grill meat skewers, and the whole atmosphere gets smoked up. All you see are shadows of people reflected on the smoke, and the dim lights of candles and fires.
My firend Tom and my Teacher Mbemba, both got robbed at night by the military. So it is not advisable for westerners to walk alone during these hours.
While we kept talking on the backyard, Djoulde taught me how to say hello in different ethnic languages . In fula you say "Njarama" when it is one person and "On Jarama" when many. Usually you will get a "Tanalaton " as an answer. If you are addressing a SuSu, you would say "Arabaldhi " and you would get "Amurabah a quioki ". And even if you want to ask "Where are you going ?" you would say "Ese fa minde ?" . He then kept teaching me different phrases, and of course how to say "fornication" and "white guy". On the following days, I kept asking Djoulde about people's ethnicity, every time we would walk by a group. I kept shooting "Njarama" and "Arabaldhi", allways to the wrong people, and getting in answer a contemptive "Bon Jour" like saying "yeah we get it, you want to start politely, but you gotta aim well first".
I am now starting to tell the difference between one and the other, by their occupation (Fula's tend to be the business men and have most of the shops in Conakry) , their features and skin, their garments (Fula's also tend to be more devote Muslims and tend to wear traditional muslim garments).
When you walk at certain times of the day and is time for "Salat" (prayer) you see most of the Fulas in their shops come together for the ritual. They wash their hands, their feet, their arms, the head, the face, their nostrils, eyes and ears, several times, allwas with the little plastic teapot. They then lay little prayer mats facing mecha, take off their shoes, and together enter in submition and harmony with god. I am really amazed at this moment, of total embracement and renouncement. 5 times a day, you purify yourself, shed off all layers, and embrace the allmighty in all harmony. The same words, the same rituals, day after day, 5 times a day until you move to other spheres....
Conakry in its very own way is a multicultural metropoli. You see woman completely covered, dressing black all the way down, and women, wearing very light clothing and a traditional african skirt. Threre are some europeands, allot of middle easterners (mostly Lebanese) including some middle eastern restaurants and a few chinese. Everybody seems to get along pretty well, and allot of Guineans are proud of the concept of tolerance and of being different from other afrian NAtions where ethnic tensions brought about civil war. There have been some recent problems with some chinese companies. It has been discovered that some antibiotics that where manufactured in Guinea and sold to the local population, where nothing more than corn starch and flower and allot of people that took the medication, perished of their disease, since it was totally useless.
The military busted with an iron hand allot of these companies, and arrested many people. Allot of Guineans are getting even more concerned about the government, and I grow uneasy. But wisdom tells me to hed fears away, continue with mi lmision and tay focued. After all, in all of these year of travel my one and only enemy was no other than me and my fear.

Horario Africano

Muchos me hablaron sobre el concepto de "Tiempo Africano" y "Tiempo Europeo", referido a la puntualidad y a la percepcion de los tiempos en este continente. Tipico es citarse a cierta hora con alguien y que esa persona llegue 2 horas mas tarde por tal o cual motivo. Yo creo que en realidad hay algo mas misterioso y profundo entretejido al particular mecanismo que regula el tiempo por estos pagos. Esta corta historia lo va a ilustrar.
Desde que llegue hace casi 2 semanas, que estoy tratando de arreglar todas las personas con las que voy a estudiar. Mi maestro, Mbemba Bangoura, con el que estudie en NY, esta ahora en Conakry. A traves de sus contactos y negociaciones es que voy a poder llegar a un buen arreglo en cuanto a precio y prestaciones. En los ultimos 3 dias, estamos tratando de combinar en un horario para poder ir juntos al ensayo de una compania que queda en el barrio de Dixin, que segun el, seria la apropiada para mi. Pero por un motivo u otro, siempre surge algun problema por lo que Mbemba no puede encontrarse conmigo, y termino perdiendo todo el dia.
Lo mas increible fue hoy viernes. Ayer, Iambig, el gerente de la empresa de Tom, me habia dicho que hoy iban a ir a su casa, en uno de los alejados suburbios de Conakry. Me habia insistido varias veces en ir y le dije que iba a hacer lo que pudiera. Iambig en realidad se llama Iansaure Bangoura. Pero como un par de veces se quedo toda una noche trabajando a lo loco en un monton de tambores, para completar un pedido, los otros empleados le pusieron el apodo de "Big", "Grande", de ahi "Iambig". Como me iba a juntar con M'Bemba hoy a la manana, los tiempos no iban a dar ni de casualidad para llegar a tiempo a encontrarme con Tom y Iambig para viajar a la casa de su familia. De repente a las 10:30 de la manana, a la hora en la que habia quedado con Mbemba para llamarlo y arreglar un punto de encuentro, no me puedo comunicar con el celular. Enseguida, me toca la puerta de mi habitacion, Tom, que habia viajado hasta mi casa. Vino a pedirme prestada la camara de fotos y algo de plata para completar unas cosas. "Todas las lineas de Areeba estan rotas no se puede llamar a nadie..." Areeba es una de las 4 companias de celulares de guinea. Justo la que M'Bemba, tom y yo teniamos, era la que se habia caido e imposibilito las comunicaciones. Despues de insistir por media hora, me di por vencido, y decidi pegarme a tom por el resto del dia, recordando el programa de Iambig.

Cuando llegamos al Taller para recogerlo, Iambig se aparecio arropado en un bellisimo atuendo africano de color amarillo, con intrincados bordados. Se subio a la Van y nos fue guiando por la ruta. Mientras saliamos de Conakry, yendo por un camino elevado, se veia en la distancia un zigzageante rio, que se perdia en una planicie verde e inmensa. Al costado, una cadena de montanas que supongo marcaban la introduccion a la zona del Futa Djalon.

Llegamos a un barrio con calles totalmente destartaladas y casas precarias, despintadas con techos de chapa, montadas sobre el plano inclinado. Mientras subiamos a tientas con la van, los chicos nos gritaban "Fote Fote !!!!" (blanco !! en sou sou). Llegamos a la casa de Iambig. Estaba pintada de azul. Consistia de una construccion de una sola planta, con un gran patio abierto a la calle. Las mujeres estaban vestidas en ropas tradicionales y cocinando en el patio sobre tachitos de carbon. Los ninos correteaban, semi desnudos. Iambig nos presento a su madre que estaba cocinando una inmensa porcion de arroz. "Arabahldi" salude en SouSou , "amurabahaquioki" me contesto la madre y luego seguimos en frances. Nos sentamos en el sopor del mediodia. Una nena con el pelo trenzado de unos 2 anos, nos vio y se puso a llorar y a buscar a la hermana mayor. Tom me explico que un pequeno porcentaje de chicos se asustan mucho de la cara de los occidentales. Me enterneci y le sonrrei.
Enseguida, Iambig nos fue presentando uno a uno los miembros de su numerosa familia. Nos pidio que por favor esperasemos sentados en el patio mientras el arreglaba unos asuntos. Mando a uno de sus hermanos a comprar unas botellitas de coca cola y luego se adentro al interior de la casa .
En el patio, comenzaron a congregarse hombres que se iban sentando uno a uno y nos iban saludando muy respetuosamente, todos vestidos en sus atuendos tradicionales. Venian de rezar de la mesquita a unas calles de distancia. La mayoria a mi juicio eran mayores de 45 anos.Enseguida, una de las mujeres trajo una palangana llena de arroz y un balde de agua y lo coloco delicadamente en el piso. Los hombres procedieron a lavarse las manos en el balde y luego a comer el arroz, con las manos todos de la misma palangana gigante. Iban conversando y comentando mientras con mucha habilidad, tomaban una porcion chica de arroz, la comian y se relamian el resto de la mano. Mire la escena con mucha curiosidad luchando por poner a un lado las capas de fobia occidental a la higiene y asi poder apreciar esta cotidianeidad, esta manera de fortalecer los lazos familiares. "todos commemos del mismo plato", pense...si unos se cae, nos caemos todos, si uno gana, ganamos todos. cuan inutiles y lejanos parecian "mira el juego de mesa nuevo que compre .... " o la insistencia de algunos conocidos de tener todos los platos y los cubiertos iguales haciendo juego....He aqui como con la sencillez de una palangana de arroz y un balde de agua, se unian todos y se recordaban la importancia de unirse y celebrar el hecho de nutrir el cuerpo y el espiritu.
Terminaron de comer, se lavaron las manos y se dirigieron a sus asuntos del dia.
Iambig aparecio y nos hizo una sena para que lo siguieramos. Pasamos al interior de la casa. Entramos a lo que parecia ser el living comedor, donde habia un juego de sillones y una comoda con fotos de la familia. El interior estaba oscuro y se respiraba un aire espeso, caliente y humedo. Los techos eran de chapas y a esa hora del dia, como en el resto de Conakry, no habia elecrtricidad.
Pasamos a una recamara, donde estaban reunidos los mas viejos de la familia. Iambig los presento uno a uno, su abuela, su tia abuela, el hermano del abuelo del padre.... La mas vieja de todas, en la esquina, nos saludo, con ambas manos, en un suave movimiento, con un toque muy sutil. Intercambiamos unas palabras y luego nos dirigimos a la salida. Mientras salia, note que en una habitacion contigua estaban reunidas todas las mujeres en una ronda. No entendi mucho, pero no me dio el tiempo para ver mas. Tambien note que en el piso habia unas esterillas, y huesos de pescado por todos lados. Tom despues me conto, que cuando comen, muchas veces dejan los deshechos en el piso y luego enrollan las esterillas y las limpian afuera.
Nos despedimos de todos y emprendimos el camino de vuelta.
Mientras regresabamos mi cabeza se perdio sonando despierto perdiendome en laberintos de peliculas y situaciones que se concatenaban unas con otras, como un telar que ocnstantemente cambia el color de los hilos. Cuando volvi a la realidad y vi la polvorienta ruta y toda la gente me senti como descolocado, me habia olvidado que estaba en Guinea y me costo unos segundos reaccionar.
Esa tarde, mientras tomabamos un cafe, me surgio el siguiente razonamiento : "De alguna manera, el destino movio las cosas para que de una forma u otra yo fuese a la casa de Iambig." Me parecio muy loco, que asi porque si, durante horas justo el dia en que no iba a ser posible que yo viajase a lo de Iambig, se cayera la red de celulares, justo los de la compania de M'Bemba, Tom y yo. Hize malabares con este pensamiento de un lado para el otro tratando de entender el por que. Se lo comente a Tom y se sonrrio. Me dijo que el problema que Iambig fue a resolver era de plata. El tio trabaja en el sector minero y es el que aporta la mayoria de la plata para la familia. Como el sector estaba en Huelga hacia rato, no les entraba plata y necesitaban de manera deseperada. El prestamo que Tom me habia pedido a la manana era en realidad para la familia de Iambig. Y supongo que la urgencia con la que Iambig me pidio que vaya a su casa, era como una manera formal de presentarme a su familia y un gran honor.
Sin embargo, seguia molestandome esa posibilidad paralela en que la loca maquinaria Africana del tiempo me tenia deparado una razon muy solida por la cual yo tenia ese mismo dia que ir a la casa de Iambig. La conclusion que elabore para calmarme el espiritu fue, que los hechos a seguir en las proximas semanas iban a explicar el por que.

Walking En Ville

My Teacher M'Bemba, called me so we could meet, and head to down town to see a company rehearsing. We took a cab, and got into the clogged arteries of the Guinean main avenues. Conakry is a peninsula. All traffic is directed into 3 main roads : "Route de Donka", "Route du Niger" and "Autoroute". Everybody is squeezed into these 3 main roads, and at rush hour it gets hecktic. We arrived to town, and Mbemba showed me the neighborhood where he was born. He new absolutely everybody, and every 50 feet, he would get stopped, start a conversation, would be handed a package, a hug, some words, would give some cash here, some cash there, then get other amounts of cash. It took us about 1 hour to walk 5 blocks, untill we arrived at the comunity center where the "Basikolo Ballet" was rehearsing. On the outside, 3 blocks of main street, where suddenly hijacked by street soccer teams. They divided the whole length of the road into 3 fields, with goal ports and all. The cars kept driving in the middle of the game, but the players, would keep avoiding them, like nothing. The honks and the cars where just obstacles that made the game even more interesting. "How many guys get their bones broken in these matches ?" I thought. I also noticed that allot of people wore Argentinian football jerseys. Every time I met a Guinean and told him / her I was from Argentina immediately they shout "Eh Messi, Maradona, Batistuta, Tevez !!" (famous argentinean soccer players), and that kind of allways brakes the ice for me (although I don't know shit about soccer, I can bullshit enough to start any conversation).
Inside the community center there was a big patio, surrounded by what appeared to be classrooms on two levels. People started to gather around while the company started its warm up. There was a big Slab of concrete of about 5 meters long by 5 meters wide and 1 meter high, where over 30 dancers, Men and Women, Women on the front (except for the warm up director that was on the front waving two straw bunches). People also started to gather on the stairs and on the rails and balconys surrounding the "Stage".
All women where wearing a uniform consisting in black tights and yellow shirts. The orchestra consisted of 9 Djembefolas (Djembe players) , 1 dununfola (dun dun player) playing a vertical dundunba and two kenkenis on the side and another dunufola playing the sangban, hanging on his side. The rythm was fast and vertiginous. You could smell the adrenaline of over 40 persons, ramming the concrete floor, and shaping powerfull sound waves accross the place. The lead dancer was showing the warm up movements, and al dancers followed. Some consisted of stretching, others on jumping, and they kept getting stronger and faster. Finally, they all made what I know as "diagonals" where all dancers gather on a corner of the stage, and one by one, the pass and do one of the movements across the whole stage's diagonal.
The warm up ends, and between those who where sitting, an African dressed in fancy white western clothes stands up and says something to the whole company. Most of the members of the companies are Malinke or SouSou. For what I heard, the Fula beeing very devote Muslims, don't see with good eyes, west african dance and drumming. (please forgive my ignorance in this one)
The company started the performance rehearsall. All the drummers where very young. The lead djembefolas where a Sousou kid that was no more than 18 years old and a little Malinke no more than 14. They blew my brain away. I was finally witnessing the dance companies I so longed to see. finally, after so many years, I get to see in guinea, real dancers and musicians, in a real company from guinea. After so many videos, and expectation, I finally got to see it. A little tear rolled down, and I made my best to hide it.
The performance kept going on. The two lead drummers, started a solo exchange where they also made a very elaborate coreogrpah with their hands that is tipical on this style. They then exchanged solos with the dancers and other drummers. On the stage side, the youngest dancers, little girls of no more than 9 to 11 , where practicing all the moves, getting ready for when they grew up to fill in any vacant positions. When the performance was reaching its climax, the director suddenly lifted both his arms, started screaming in rage, and halted the whole thing. He stayed silence looking at everyone, and not even a fly moved. He then lowered his arms, walked to the side of the stage and grabbed what looked like a rubber car trasnmition belt, cut on the side, so it ended up being one piece. He then climbed on stage, said something to the dancers, and then they all showed their hands. One by one he threw a whip on each one of them. On one, he even asked her to lay on the ground, face down, and blew a painfull whip to her buttocks. Each one of the dancers received the blow with allot of pain, and immediately left the stage running in pain, crying and shaking to "wash the pain away". Some received it on the legs, and then dragged to the floor like a dog on the dirt shaking and panting, others in their hand. It seemed very painfull, but the girls would take it as some collective punishment for their mistake. I didn't know what to do, if cry, cover my mouth, or laugh. Everybody around was laughing. It reminded me of medieval times, when people gathered around the central plaza, to witness the spectacle of an execution. All girls where whipped but a little one, of no more than 13, that he left for the end. He approached her, and lifted his menacing arm looking down on her from above. The little girl was offering her hand, and hopping frantically from one foot to the other, waiting for the blow to come. He waited about 20 seconds, and all spectators where laughing. Finally, he gave the blow, and she ran towards the rest, looking for a way to end the pain.
They all went back into stage. The director left the whip, and gave more indications. They repeated the scene, and I guess there where no more mistakes.
I thought long and deep on these things, when I went to sleep that night, trying not to make a judgment from my westerner eyes. ITs hard. It's very hard. Like the pillars that hold your moral values being mercilessly whiped and battered.

Una visita al corredor de bolsa

Djulde vive en una casilla en la parte de atras de lo que parece ser un edificio de departamentos. Esta totalmente hecha de concreto y debe tener unos 2.5 m cuadrados. Tiene un bano con un inodoro sin tapa. No hay lavabo. La mayoria de los habitantes de Conakry se banan con un balde. Usan una especie de tetera de plastico para dispensar el agua a traves del cuerpo. El agua viene de pozo. Si no hay un pozo en el lugar, durante el dia pasan aguateros con carros, llenos de bidones de agua de pozo. Por la ciudad venden un porducto que se llama "Ser 'eau", con el slogan "pour la bon sante de tout la famiglie " (para la buena salud de toda la familia). El cartel publicitario se ve por todos lados y muestra a un hombre orgulloso mostrando la botellita hacia el espectador, y mujeres y ninos tomando agua contentos. El producto sirve para potabilizar el agua de pozo. Basta una tapita, esperar media hora y el agua esta limpia. Tom me explico que el tenia un monton de problemas en la piel, usando el agua de pozo asi como venia, por lo que siempre tiene que purificar toda el agua con ese producto.
PAra lavarse los dientes y para beber, siempre usamos agua embotellada. Hay 2 marcas en la ciudad, y se venden en botellas de 1.5 litros, de 500 cm3 y en sachecitos. Te dan 2 sachecitos por unos 500 Francos Guineanos (unos 10 centavos de dolar)
El dia despues de mi llegada a Conakry, Tom me desperto temprano. Me llevo a desayunar a un restaurante que queda al lado de una estacion de servicio. Nos sirvieron 1 coca, media lunas (croisants), cafe con leche (te dan una taza de leche caliente y en la mesa hay un tarrito de Nescafe) y una omelette con tomates. Tom me explicaba mientras desayunaba que habia tenido muchos problemas con la comida. Muchos de los locales no tienen las normas de higiene a las que los occidentales estamos acostumbrados. Me conto que se la pasaba enfermandose y agarrandose cualquier peste, hasta que decidio pagarle a un cocinero para que le prepare su comida, y desayunar en este lugar que, aunque muy caro para los estandares Guineanos, era limpio.
"Hoy tengo un monton de cosas para hacer. Venite con nosotros, asi vas recorriendo la ciudad un poco. Primero voy a pasar por el taller, y despues vamos a ir a Medina que es el gran mercado a conseguir unas cajas " me dijo. "Necesitas vcambiar plata, no ?" me pregunto ...."le dije que si" me dijo que ahi, lo ibamos a poder hacer, que tenia un contacto que le hace un precio especial
Despues de desayunar nos subimos a la Van Chevrolet y manejamos hasta el taller. Durante el corto viaje, todo el escenario me parecia extreemadamente rustico. Todas las calles estan cubiertas de polvo, las construcciones, estan todas abatidas por la falta de mantenimiento. Una especie de testimonio a una actitud de supervivencia, de vivir el dia a dia, de mantenerse en pie como sea, y dejar para despues, los detalles como la pintura, cambiar una puerta totalmente oxidada, o el vidrio emparchado con cinta scotch mil veces. A la distancia, vi una procesion de mujeres barrenderas todas vestidas en el mismo uniforme, unas ropas tradicionales africanas como ser el vestido y el panuelo en la cabeza, todo de color azul. Estaban todas limpiando el costado de las calles, con unas escobas de mano, hechas de un largo manojo de paja. Acumulaban toda la basura en una montanita y le prendian fuego. A los costados de todas las calles, hay unos zanjones profundos. Mi atrevido y curioso espiritu se animo a mirar al interior, para encontrar en el fondo un perverso caldo verdoso, compuesto por una inmunda basura, bolsitas de plastico, hojitas, cascaras de naranja y un sinnumero de porquerias. El olor tenia un tinte humilde y seco pero satanico y vomitivo. Un arroyo del infierno, pense, que acumula en su espiritu dia a dia, la miseria de estas personas, llorando en la soledad de ese profundo sanjon, cocinado lenta pero ininterrumpidamente por el sol Africano, alto y eterno.
Guinea, como muchos paises de Africa del Oeste tiene 2 estaciones : La seca y la de Lluvias. Durante la estacion seca, desde el Sahara soplan los vientos Harmatan. Durante el dia, la ciudad tiene como un polvillo que se acumula en todos lados. La tierra es de por si de un color ocre rojizo. Sumado al polvo del Harmatan, hasta las hojas de los arboles quedan tenidas. Ese polvo de mierda se mete en los pulmones, y te lija la garganta hata dejartela como el pavimento, pero el pavimento roto lleno de baches y de agujeros a la nada !!
El calor me es insoportable. Vengo de 10 grados bajo cero y nieve Neo yorkina. Todo me agota, y todo lo transpiro.
Tom y Djulde me comentan que el calor se pone todavia peor, hasta que lllega mediados de mayo, principios de junio, en donde empiezan unas timidas lluvias. El agua va en incremento, mientras pasan las semanas, hasta que cuando se llega a mediados de julio, es una catarata insesante que no para por semanas. Tom me dice : "Te aseguro que en tu vida vas a ver tanta agua como la que cae durante esa temporada". Eso me hizo entender porque los zanjones. Aparentemente, todo el pais se vuelve intransitable, y todo el mundo pasa de estar cubierto por polvo, a estar empapado en un barro. En esa epoca, es donde se dan la mayoria de las enfermedades.
Tom tiene una empresa que fabrica Djembes, Dun Duns y otrso instrumentos africanos (para los que me conocen y a esta altura no saben lo que es un djembe, miren la pagina de la empresa de Tom www.wuladrum.com o hagan google en wula drum). Esta asociado a Michael Markus, un conocido percusionista americano que, como yo, estudio varios anos musica del oeste de africa. Los djembes se fabrican en Guinea, y la mayoria de venden en Estados Unidos. A mi parecer, creo que son los mejores djembes del planeta. He visto instrumentos en Canda, Estados unidos, Brasil y Argentina e incluso instrumentos traidos de Indonesia o Senegal y otros paises africanos. Ninguno de esos tiene la calidad de contruccion de la empresa de Tom.
El taller es una casa hecha mierda de muchas habitaciones con un patio gigante, con piso de tierra, en plano inclinado y un par de arboles de Mangos. Tom llega a emplear hasta 30 Guineanos a la vez, dependiendo de cuantos pedidos tenga. Desde las personas que le proveen de cueros, los que esculpen los tambores (se hacen de un tronco ahuecado), los que montan las cuerdas, hacen el acabado en aceite, hasta los que negocian con los proveedores locales de maderas para conseguir las mejores piezas. Los tambores pasan por varios procesos. Empiezan por un tronco con una rudimentaria forma de copa, despues se va refinando la figura, se lijan, se tratan con varias manos de un aceite especial, luego dependiendo del modelo y calidad, se esculpen durante dias con tallados hermosos y exclusivos. Despues, se le montan los cueros con el clasico sistema de cuerdas y aros. Finalmente se le hacen varias agotadoras pasadas para tensar el cuero. Para esto, se coloca el tambor en el piso, y con un palo de unos 50 cm de largo y 5 de ancho, se va enroscando la cuerda y haciendo palanca, cuerda por cuerda (son unas 32) y dandole martillazos al aro, hasta conseguir el sonido deseado. El ultimo paso, consiste en darle un acabado decorativo y ponerle una base de goma en la copa.
Casi todos los procesos se hacen de forma artesanal. Los empleados trabajan al aire libre a la sombra de los arboles. La escena se parece a una foto de la NAtional Geographic. Si bien, no veo que les pongan una presion china, y se toman el trabajo con mucha calma, el laburo en si es agotador y tedioso. A veces, el esculpido de algunos tambores puede llegar a llevar 1 semana, con infinita paciencia y dedicacion. Si un golpe se hace fuera de lugar, se puede arruinar el instrumento. O por ejemplo, colocar y tensar los cueros convierte a las manos en racimos de callos y ampollas. Los empleados, van charlando entre ellos, mientras trabajan y se rien, o cuentan chistes. Hablan en dialecto, asi que no entiendo nada, pero por otro lado, es como que entiendo todo.
Tom se pone a hablar con uno de los escultores, mira un par de cueros, y me hace una sena para subir a la van. Djulde nos sigue elpaso. Djulde, es el asistente personal de Tom. Yo lo llamo "el embajador". Es un muchacho de 21 anos, que se escapo de la casa cuando nino, de un padre golpeador. Trabajo de lustra botas y luego en cualquier negocio en donde pudiera meterse. Se encargo despues de pasarle plata a su famila cuando se enfermo el padre y de conseguirles trabajos a sus hermanos y hermanas. Se conoce Conakry y las aldeas de las afueras como la palma de su mano. Habla en todos los dialectos y es super afilado para negociar los precios. "A Djulde le confio absolutamente todo... yo sin el, no puedo hacer nada" me dice Tom. Tambien me dice que para hacer negocios o concretar las cosas aca, siempre hay que tener varios africanos con uno. Sino, al verle a uno la cara de occidental, le cobran distintos precios. Tom tiene un batallon de Guineanos, consiguiendo cosas, negociando, bajando precios, cargando otras cosas, etc..."Sino, se vuelve mas lento e imposible ..."
"Otra cosa a tener en cuenta, es que las cosas aca se dan de manera muy lenta. Tienes que tenerle una inmensa paciencia". Si algun proveedor te prometio madera para manana, resulta que quizas se rompio el bote que lleva la madera a traves del rio camino a la aldea y ademas, se enfermo el primo, entonces la madera lllega 1 semana despues de lo prometido. Asi multiplicado por mil y en cada aspecto de la vida.
Manejamos a traves de calles llenas de puestitos hechos de rudimentaria chapa y madera donde se vendia de todo. Desde extensiones electricas hasta baguettes. Por la calle se ve cada tanto un colectivo repleto con gente colgando. Si los argentinos somos unos animales colericos manejando estos tipos son las huestes de Gengis Khan con kilos de cocaina en el cerebro. Toda vez que van a doblar, casi no chocan por un milimetro.
Por las avenidas, tambien circula una incesante corriente de Taxis. Muy distintos al concepto de taxi al que estamos acostumbrado. Estos son autos totalmente destruidos, con el parabrisas roto en varios lugares, atados por todos lados con miles de alambres. Los choferes hacen un recorrido por una avenida y van subiendo personas igual que un colectivo, cobrando una tarifa fija segun la distancia. Lo mas comun, es cargar hasta 6 personas en un auto sedan. Renault, Peugeot, Ford, Mitsubishi, Honda, Toyota.... todas las marcas habidas y por haber, todas enviadas por algun amigo, desde europa, usa, canada, o quien sabe, todos cargados hasta el tuetano con 6 personas mas el chofer. 4 atras, 2 en el asiento de acompanante y el chofer.
En las intersecciones de las avenidas hay rotondas que distribuyen el trafico. En el medio de las rotondas hay unas plasoletitas con esculturas burdas y gigantezcas. Bambeto tiene unas mascaras tribales. Belville, tiene un elefante gigante con una pelota de futbol, la entrada a Medina, tiene un hombre con los brazos en alto, rompiendo las cadenas de esclavitud. Pasan distintas rotondas y Djulde me va diciendo los nombres de los barrios "Kaporo Rai", "Dixin", "Hamdalaya", "Touya".... En todas las rotondas, hay puestitos vendiendo verduras, frutas, escobas, tachos de basura, baguettes, botellitas de nafta (botellas de otra bebida llenas de combustible color rojo), agua embotellada....
En cada rotonda, policias hombres y mujeres, van controlando el trafico. Cuando un auto se queda parado , se acercan enfurecidos y le dan un monton de golpes a la carroceria con un pedazo de manguera para que se sigan moviendo. A Tom siempre lo saludan.... "siempre tengo que andar dandoles algo de plata, sino me paran todo el tiempo..." me explico. Ademas, me comento, el arreglo que tuvo que hacer con un inspector de policia conocido, para poder acceder a los papeles necesarios para manejar. "aca, sino tenes contactos, no conseguin nada...." agrego.
Llegamos a un lugar lleno de personas yendo de un lado para el otro, muchas cargando grandes canstos en la cabeza, y bolsas en ambos brazos. Comenzamos a estacionar la camioneta y de la nada, aparecio un policia gritando. Luego, al verlo a Tom, le grito "Eh !!! Rambo !!!" y le sonrrio. Le pregunto si queria que se lo cuide y hasta lo guio para estacionarlo. Tom "Rambo" le deslizo los magicos billetes en el bolsillo de la camisa. Tom es alto, flaco y fibroso. Tiene el pelo, peinado para atras y casi siempre lleva musculosa y pantalones de carga. De ahi, supongo, el apodo "Rambo". Hasta los chicos que lo conocen le gritan "Rambo !!! Rambo !!!"
"Cuida mucho los bolsillos y trata de no perder el paso. Cuando hay mucha gente y se pone apretado, te pueden sacar la plata de los bolsillos " me dijo . Caminamos por un puente colmado de gente. En el aire habia olor a basura y bolsa quemada que me irritaba a mas no poder, junto con el sol del mediodia, que me agrietaba el alma. Abajo en la distancia, se veian las vias del tren, y unos puestos que parecia vendian, herramientas, neumaticos, pedazos de metal, todos cocinandose en la estufa del dia a dia.
Entre la gente nos cruzabamos cada tanto con personas en muletas o sillas de ruedas que nos pedian plata.
Paraguas, naranjas pelada listas para comer, tiras de banana frita, brochettes de carne, moscas, mosacas, moscas, basura en el piso, valijas, radiograbadores, celulares, puestos al costado, puestos en el medio de la calle, personas con el puesto colgado caminando, puestos a la sombra, puestos al sol. Todas las chinas, indias, europas, huertas, fabricas, plantaciones estaban ahi reunidas y seguro n ohabia cosa que no se pudiera conseguir.
Seguimos adentrandonos en el mercado y nos metimos en un pasillo, donde habia varios puestos en una galera rudimentaria que vendian cosmeticos y articulos delimpieza. Nos detuvimos en un puesto que tenia el cartel de una zapateria.
Dentro estaba el contacto de Tom, sentado hablando con otra persona. Tenia un gorrito musulman de color blanco . Habia varias cajas de "Nescafe" apiladas al costado. A sus pies, una caja con fajos inmensos de billetes . Tras el, un hombre sentado en el piso sobre una manta, iba armando fajos de billetes.
El cambio es aproximadamente US$ 1 = 5000 francos guineanos. Los billetes vienen de 500, 1000, 5000 y 10000. O sea que si cambias US$ 200 te dan 1 millon de francos guineanos, que termina siendo un ladrillo de plata. Los fajos estan organizados en un sistema donde cada diez billetes ponen uno alrededor. De esa forma, se pueden contar de 10 en 10.
Tom me pregunto cuanto tenia. Le mostre mis dolares y al ver que eran todos billetes de 20, le cambio la cara a una de duda. "Hmmmm... no creo que te cambien. Aca solo cambian billetes de 100 ". Le pregunto al hombre del cambio y le nego con la cabeza, pero nos dio indicaciones sobre un contacto en la embajada de sierra leon, que nos podia llegar a cambiar .
Tom siguio hablando, y como estaba corto de plata para pagar unas cosas, gestiono un prestamo. Enseguida, el hombre le sonrrio, bajo una de las cajas de "Nescafe" y de adentro saco un burdo e inmenso ladrillo de plata. Lo envolvimos en una bolsa de plastico color negro, Djulde se lo pueso en el bolso y salimos todos de vuelta a la camioneta.
"Estas con hambre ?" me pregunto tom. Asenti. Fuimos a agarrar algo de comer al puesto de su cocinero. Llegamos y nos lavamos las manos con la "teterita" de plastico al costado en la calle y nos sentamos en unos bancos rudimentarios tipo "barra" armados en la calle. "Barry" nos saluda y trae la comida. "Pollito" al horno, con pure de papas y verduras salteadas con especias. Tom le compra un aceite importado de EEUU. Parece ser que el aceite local, generalmente de palmera, le cae muy pesado.
Mientras me preparaba a digerir el pollo africano, mi cabeza digeria el extrano mundo que habiamos dejado atras hace unos minutos. Me preguntaba un poco asustado como iba a lograr todo lo que necesitba. "medio dia a la vez" me dije como tantas otras veces....y me calle con una cucharada de pure de papa (tipo la cancion de chico buarque)

The sheep and the lions

Landing in Conakry at 2:30 in the morning, after a 4 hour flight, felt like landing into many of the airports of the cities of Argentina, where many years ago I used to Tour with a band. We got off the plane through a staircase. Me and a lady a few seats on the back , where the only westerners on the filght. The rest where all africans. Some where dressed in what appeared to be traditional Islamic clothers. Other's wore elegant western suits, some had casual wear and most of the women, wore some very colourfull traditional dressses. We got off the plane throuigh a staircase and headed inside the bus. I was very nervous. For what I heard, Guinea's custom's and immigration are hectic and foreginers are given a very hard time. I was traveling with a lot of recording equipment, many bottles of chinese anti malarial medicine, my laptop, and a lot of small gadgets that where necessary for my journey. Hassle was obvious. My contatct Tom, advised me to allow him to arrange someone, that could pass me through customs. I immediately agreed. Many months before, Tom and I had a meeting, where he described the many aspects of the daily life in Conakry. Overall, he told me that it is almost indispensible to have one or more Africans by your side to get you through things, without being taken advantage of. Someone would be meeting me before the immigration gate with a printed photo of me. The airport was very poorly lit. The interior seemed like a worn out warehouse, with signs that had the letters painted off, and hanging on a single crooked thread. The floor was filthty and everything was lit by a horrible and insufficient fluorescent light.We went through the first gate towards the inside, and some offciers (I guess that's what they where, since they had no uniforms whatsoever) handed out the typical boarding card where you write down all your information incuding reason for travel, place where you would stay, etc...I had 2 very heavy backpacks and my little guitar and was exhausted beyond belief. I kept following the line of people, trying to show an indifferent face, and looking around for my contact. I was so scared. My heart was racing, pumping gallons and galons of blood to my brain that created the most ridicuolous stories I would have to make out to get out of this one.... I headed to a high table and rested my bags and started to complete the paperwork. I looked arounf. Suddenly out of nowhere a big hand grabbed my arm, and said : "This way ... you come here...." A very tall african man, was showing me the way. I didn't know who the heck it was, and at first I thought it was some kind of secret police guy working for the government. Guinea was a dictatorship. The latest head of state, took power in a cou, after lansana Conte, who in turn took power 25 years ago in a cue, passed away.I preteneded I didn't hear him, took his arm away, and ketp filling in the card. I didn't know exactly what to commplete, since I forgot the name of the neighbourhood I was staying. Then, out of nowhere a guy apporaches me and says "JACK !!! how are you " (???????? !!!!! ))I snapped at him in cave man french "me don't know you ! go away !!!". He answered "Jack, you my friend !!! I help you here !! come this way ... " He grabbed my arm, and showed me the way, totally convinced that I was supposed to follow his lead in order to survive. For a mooment, I hesitated, and wondered if Tom, had forgotten to print my picture for my contact. I shily asked "Are you with tom ?" ...he answered "...this way !! this way !!!" Then, the big guy that kept next to me all the time, got into an argument with this other one in a language I didn't understand. It all took a very high tone. We were on the big room before you get into immigration. To even think about a scene like this in any of the western airports would be a very heavy acid surreal nightmare !!!I walked aside, trying to stay out of it, looking all around for my contact that wasn't showing up. I started to follow the line heading towards the immigration officer's booth. Then, I guy salutes me "Alex, I'm your firend." He shows me the picture I sent tom on the email. He smiled to me. He was of a very thin completion and was missing all of his front teeth. I felt relieved. I showed him my docuemtns and told me everything was ok, to follow immigration, that he would meet me in customs. But this relief was short ended. The 2 other guys that where fighting over my flesh, got into an argument with my contact. It gotinto a really high tone, but he kept telling me "just go I'll handle this, just give me US$10 so I can get these 2 idiost off my back !!" . For a moment I though and remembered that Tom told me that everything was paid for. I hesitated but he insisted. I was so scared, and knew he was taking advantage of me, but just gave in and handed him a 20. I had no change. I went through immigration,got my stamp, then handed my yellow fever vaccination record and finally headed to the chamber preceding customs.This was chaos multiplied by ten. I had to pick my bagagge and a dozen other bandits approached me, trying to take my passport and my baggage check tags, so they could do me the "favor" of getting my bags. I saw Tom, and shook his hand. He told me to get my bags quickly that we would still have to go throught customs. I grabbed my bags, ripped off the protective Nylon wrap and mounted them on a cart. Suddenly, the 2 first idiots come near with a soldier, and took away our contact ! I look at Tom with a desperate gaze. He told me with a sign that everything was going to be alright. I saw our contact argue with the officers, then give them a sympathetic pat on the back and slide a few bills in one of their shirt's pockets.He gave us a sign. Tom told me to move quickly next to the custom's table so as to bypass them. A woman dressed in a military uniform was violently placing luggage on some makeshift tables, and opening them for inspection. A bunch of people where all aroung mounting up to a lot of chaos. The whole place was lit by a phantasmagoric fluorescent light hanging hig above. This must be for sure one of the many versions of hell. We swiftly go by, while our contact slides some more bills into another officer's pocket. Yet another one stops us, he looks at the previous one in demand, and he says it's ok. We keep going, and yet another officer standing in the ramp., that takes to the parking lot, sees the size of my luggage and the colour of my skin, and stops us like saying "no no no....now wait a moment....."...Not surprisingly the intital 2 idiots, the tall and the short one, appear out of nowhere like being in cahoots with the officer. Our contact gets into another argument. The officer gets mad, makes a gesture as to put a punch in his face, but get's stopped by te tall idiot. He threatens all mad, with a pointing finger. Our toothless friend, smiles at him, puts his arms around him, slides the magic bills in his pocket and then says something to the 2 idiots.We finally make it to the parking lot where a battered white chevrolet van awaits us. We load my stuff. Our Contqct says "Give me some more money. I need to pay all of these guys that made me go through the doors..." Out of literally nowhere, 8 guys show up including the 2 idiots. Tom hands him a bunch of cash. Toothless, disburses it between all hands, and they all say goodbye.
I was shaking and couldn't believe the mess I got myself into !!!We drove through bumpy , unpaved and dirty roads, covered in garbage. Tom was on the back seat with me explaining all the hassle he had to go through to arrange this. His African Friend was driving. We arrived to a gate, drove through, and entered a candle lit room. Tom told me "This is Djulde's place. He is my friend. He is ok. You will spend the night with him for now." and he left.I arranged all of my stuff in the very small room. I asked about the washroom, he pointed to a door, closed by a curtain. Inside, the was a bowl without a lid, and two buckets with water, no faucet. I washed my face and hands powring water from bucketinto a little cointainer and then my hands.Djulde asked me in rudimentary english If I needed anything, and I said ... "I just want to sleep, thank you very much...." He sais "OK no problem. I am going close door !!!"I layed on a queen size mattress on the floor. Djulde, took one side, I took the other. I felt a little uncomfortable, but then thought "what the heck !!!" As I tried to enter the domain of Morpheus, I felt purple and faint gushes of weirdly formed shapes appear in the background of my very tired eyes. This is going to be strong beyonf belief, I thought....and eventually fainted into wild dreams....