Thursday, June 14, 2007
Convicting and Condoning
Recently, I heard a terrible story on the news about a man who had been charged for having cut the ears of his Rotweiler/German Sheppard puppy in order to make him appear "more menacing". I was as happy that he had been charged for this brutality as I was horrified that he had done it. Today, biking along Queen Street, I saw a woman in a trendy spring dress, cheerily walking her Doberman Pinscher puppy who had the white bandaged evidence that her ears had just been "cropped". This darling, innocent little being had succumbed to the cruelty of human vanity, having had her soft puppy ears cut to a shape deemed the proper style for her breed. How, really, is this any less horrific than what that man had been charged for? I didn't know whether the urge was stronger to scream with anger for the injustice or cry for the puppy, begging its forgiveness for the senseless violence of my species that rears its ugly head in so many domains.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
West Africa 2002
I've been asked on several occasions in the last while to share the collection of missives I sent from my journey through West Africa in the summer of 2002. So while these are hardly fresh writings, I'm offering them now to my newer friends with hopes that you'll enjoy the vicarious adventure. Perhaps this posting will spark an active effort to share further musings as current chapters unfold. This summer promises to offer much inspiration as I embark westward for studies in bodywork on Denman Island, BC and continue from there as bassist for Random Order, playing a month of festivals as far-reaching as Yellowknife.
The Ghana Chapter
Well, typical of the inconvenience of the internet service here, I just typed for about 20 minutes and the computer crashed. And I have a line of people breathing down my neck waiting to use the terminal. So this will have to be much briefer than I had hoped.
I'm in Accra, the capital, on a day trip right now. Most of my time has been spent in the tiny rural village of Dagbamete where the drum master and his extended family live. It's been a wonderful experience being welcomed so warmly into this community of about 250 people. I was surprised to discover that though English is the official language of Ghana, very little of it is spoken anywhere outside the major centres. So I've been doing my best learning basics of their tribal language of Ewe.
I took part in a thanksgiving ritual at the village shrine where people had come from all around to give thanks for previous prayers which had been answered. They had to bring chickens or goats offer as sacrifices and strangle them at arm's length while the drums thundered. I had the strange privilege of being invited to join in the drumming while the goats seemed to scream, "Nooooo! Nooooo!". This vegetarian had to try very hard to shed her preconceptions and fight back tears. After the animals were dead, their throats were slit and blood was dripped into chalices around the shrine. Then they were butchered and put to cook in small pots over wee fires tended by children under a very picturesque, bright moon.
Meanwhile, the drumming continued and dancing began in the shrine, which is really just a big roof with posts holding it up. Smiling, open-hearted villagers grabbed us "yavous" (white people) and dragged us into the dancing. It was a great honour to be included, but creepy to realize I was dancing barefoot on freshly splattered blood!
Another remarkable experience was my first visit to the local rural market day. I'm so glad to have started this trip with the three weeks hosted at Dagbamete because we enjoy the benefits of having an escort on such occasions as the market visit. It would have been almost unbearably overwhelming to arrive at such a place alone as the only westerner in a dense crowd of noisy merchants and shoppers. Even the merchandise was about 40% mysterious! All manner of strange herbs and chunks of stuff! I was there with the village's seamstress to purchase material for the traditional outfit to be worn at our performances and at traditional celebrations. She introduced me to the fine art of bargaining which has been quite a hoot, though intimidating at first. Trying to make a choice when there was stall after stall of magnificent hand-dyed material was next to impossible.
So you oughtta see me in my full skirt, headwrap and shirt, all girly girly! Not surprisingly, I'm more attracted to a lot of the men's wear and will be breaking tradition by having Angeline make me some of that.
Took a day trip to Togo last week and enjoyed the endless beach of the city of Lome. All palm trees and coconuts. So much delicious fruit! I fear I'm gonna be so sick of rice very soon. That is the main course of almost every meal. I have ventured into eating fish, as I suspected I would need to in order to get my protein. It's been ok. There is an endless supply of yummy coconuts at the village which I enjoyed drinking and eating frequently.
We were guests of honor at the drum and dance festival at a neighbouring village yesterday. It was fantastic but it felt really weird to get in the van at the end and feel like the Rolling Stones circa 1966 leaving the venue of a concert. Throngs of kids clambouring all over the van and chasing it down the road. The whole privilege experience is just as uncomfortable as I thought it would be. It doesn't help that Kwasi, our drum instructor, is, along with his brother the village priest, the most respected man in the entire district due to his wealth and power, and of course, the fact that he lives in the highly revered West much of the year. His cell phone is ever present and always ringing. Cell phones are seen as such status symbols that you even see fabric printed with giant cellphone images in the market. So when we tour about with him it is like we are the king's court and treated as such. It's advantageous when it comes to breezing through police road blocks and customs, but I'm looking forward nevertheless to experiencing the last 5 weeks of my trip without the prestige of his hosting, much as it has been fun and full of his wonderful warmth and charm. Can't say I don't have some serious anxiety about the solo part of the journey though. I don't worry so much about my physical safety, just that I will probably have to deal with constant efforts people will make to take advantage of my privilege and my ignorance.
Well, I should wrap up, though I could go on for another hour.
Ghana: Chapter Two
Hello to all my favourite people! I hope this finds you all well and
living a little dream each day or at least happily working towards one.
[There is arabic on this keyboard. Wild!]
I'll start with a page from my journal during a long stretch in the
village away from email.
July 29, 2002
Hanging out on a lazy afternoon here in Dagbamete. Village women scrub laundry, kids scamper about, laughing, shouting and squealing. The wind hushes through the lush trees. Ewe conversations paint my soundscape with new sounds. Lizards blaze a spritely dance across walls and rooftops.My toes brush the soft red sand that covers all that is not building, tree or bush.
How is it that I feel at once so alien and yet so at home? Perhaps it is the combination of loving, friendly people and the familiar comfort I find when surrounded by nature. I am also witnessing so much universality in human interaction, despite the vastly different culture. But it's true, I can't deny discovering a heightened appreciation for certain aspects of my own culture -- variety, convenience and the smooth efficiency we can expect from most of our business and bureaucratic transactions. Expecting and enjoying a certain level of hygene in city life is a luxury which ought not be taken for granted. Accra is the capital of Ghana -- a large city -- and, in some areas, rather than underground sewers, all the liquid filth flows (or stagnates) in troughs between the walkways and the streets. Quite a stench! And Makola Market women sell allmanner of foodstuff right there in the stink.
I'm feeling a little starved for protein and fresh, uncooked vegetables and fruit. Dreaming of a big plate of tofu with brocolli and a large, fresh salad. Hope it's just those cravings which explain this frequent weariness. Needing iron, protein and calcium. Have continued to eat some fish when I can't get beans. Have even had to live with the fact that most vegetable sauces (and sauces are ubiquitous) are cooked with a meat base. Sometimes I've even managed to stomach the unmistakable taste of goat in my food. Unfortunately, even the seemingly innocent beans and rice are often cooked in meat stock. Haven't downed any chunks, though. There I draw the line. Yuck! Goats are way too cute to eat!
August 2nd
Cape Coast, Ghana
Haunted severely by the echoes of misery in the slave "castle" at Elmina. Standing on the very stones which housed hundreds of thousands of the estimated 20 million captured Africans as they awaited transportation to their unspeakable fates was heartbreaking and horrifying. Women crammed into a dungeon for 3 months at a time with no choice but to create a reeking mess with their urine, feces, vomit and menstrual blood, fed barely enough to stay alive and packed in with hardly room to lie down. I tilted my head back for a moment's escape from these horrible imaginings but was only faced with thinking of being one of those women as she passed countless hours of suffering gazing at that same ceiling from her few filthy inches of
floor, dreaming of better times.
My journal goes on with further details of these horrors. I'll spare you.
Thankfully, the depressing but educational tour was followed by a walk through the treetops of the Kakum Rainforest. Engulfed by the majesty of nature at her most lush and monumental. Seemed I was again a somewhat reluctant invader as a primate who no longer belongs so high in those jungle trees. But I did find it exhilarating to walk the seven narrow suspension bridges and look down and out from the platforms built around each of the six giant trees in between.
_____________________________________
Myself and the other visitors to Dagbamete were let down by the lack of drum class that ended up occuring in the so-called "intensive" 3-week workshop. Rather than the 5 hours a day specified in our schedule, I think we ended up having about 9 classes. Our teacher is indeed a very busy man with innumerable responsibilites, but he needs to hire an assistant. Still,it was a pleasure hanging out and being taken care of at the village and the many field trips have been rewarding. Went several times to the Arts Centre Cultural Market in Accra and have ordered an excellent custom carved djembe which is going to cost only $46Cdn with case! I need to make some dough to get out of debt when I return so I've bought a second one just to sell.
They go for at least $350 new in Canada.
Had a really fun night hanging with some of the young men one night in the village. They sparked a spliff and ended up performing some of their Ewe rap for me. I'm hoping to use recordings from that plus cds of their favourite locals rappers for a Global Village report. Haven't come across any other news worthy of reporting on but have recorded all kinds of cool sounds:insects, birds, drumming galore, bats etc.
There was a wonderful farewell party for all us North Americans on our last night in the village. The whole village came out for dancing and drumming and much akpeteshi flowed. (That is a gut-burning spirit made from palm wine.)
I left the village and met up with two NYC gals I had the pleasure of meeting in the nearby larger town of Akatsi. They were volunteering at an orphanage. Weird how volunteering works these days though. They paid as much as we did for our workshop to work for one month. But they too have had life-altering, rewarding experiences. So I returned to Accra with these girls -- Cherry and Christina. We dropped sistah (ya!) Cherry off at the airport then booked the Hotel de California for the night. We met some really great locals there, one who will take me to hear some live highlife upon my return to Accra.
The next couple of days we spent at a veritable Backpacker's Club Med at a beach called Kokrobite about 2 hours from Accra. It was a tropical paradise complete with windswept palm trees, naked boys playing in the surf, and Rastas drumming on the gorgeous beach. Christina and I shared a sweet little round thatched hut and enjoyed food that offered a refreshing change from village fare. We had a blast bodysurfing in the waves of the Gulf of Guinea and relaxed, writing copiously in our journals. I also enjoyed a tour Kobiete, the son of a local chief who showed my his monkey sanctuary and then took my on his canoe through the river channels which feed into the ocean. Unfortunately I arose too late to see the monkeys at play, but the jungle was rewarding enough to gaze upon in all its magnificent lushness. We also went to the beach where I watched lines of as many as 20 fishermen pulling in their nets, some groups singing to their lone percussionist's rhythms. (I'd want that job!) Apparently they pull from early in the morning for as much as 6 hours. I was able to witness the shimmer of thousands of different types of silver fish in a few of the nets as they were finally pulled onto the sand. The nets also contained shrimps, lobsters, octopus and jellyfish.
Despite all the rewarding pleasures, one of the things that is not so nice about this culture is that I have to constantly expect people to try to squeeze me for money. Even once you've bargained down to an agreed price, many will try to insist on more when the deal is closing. I had a long and frustrating argument with Kobiete after our tour where he tried to get me to believe I had agreed to a higher price than I know I had. This shit happens all the time and wears me down. Much as it's cool to be able to bargain down to great prices much of the time, I'll be happy to get back to notn having to engage in a lengthy discussion everytime I buy something or pay for a service.
The next day I accompanied Christina back to Accra to fly off and now, the day has come -- I'M ALONE! It's a little scary but I've been well prepped. And so this afternoon I'm going to the airport to book my flight which will take me back from Dakar, Senegal to Accra on September 14. I was hoping that would be cheap like all the other modes of transportation I've tried, but it's biting a $440US hole in my line of credit. Ouch!
I'm thinking of spending the night back at Kokrobite, lulled by the waves. Then tomorrow I pick up my visa from the embassy of Mali and begin my solo journy north. Kumasi is the next stop. That is the ancient capital of the Ashanti Kingdom. It will get hotter and more expensive as I continue through Tamale then out of Ghana into Burkina Faso, then Mali, and finally Senegal.
French Immersion
Hello my Canadian friends and family!
Eek! I'm a bit discouraged by the very different french configuration of this keyboard. I'm in Bobo-Diolasso in the Burkina Faso and this is day three of my immersion into french language and culture. It's remarkable how much of French culture has remained in this part of Africa. Immediately upon crossing the border from Ghana, so many smoked cigarettes and drove mopeds like some french film!
So much has occured since my last update it would be impossible to touch on it all. I've travelled solo from the south coast of Ghana up through the Ashante Kingdom to Tamale in the north.
In Kumasi I became quick friends with a Twi woman I sat next to on a bus. She runs a beauty "saloon" and has a son, a dancer who dreams of emigrating to Canada. So she had him show me all around town in exchange for the answering of his many questions and then hosted me at her salon, enthusiastically introducing me to friends and other family members. It was a happy cultural exchange at the end of which she insisted on taking my measurements for a traditional outfit she would make for me that afternoon. I returned that evening to collect my gift and enjoyed further hospitality with the gang. I told her I would remember Kumasi for its incredibly friendly people!
A few hours on a ridiculously packed and hot bus from Tamale I visited Mole National Park where I had the joy of close contact with elephants, warthogs, antelopes, monkeys and baboons. I sacked in a dorm with 14 young travellers from the British Isles whose company I enjoyed for a couple days.
Then a visit to the tiny Muslim town of Larabanga described by the following excerpt from my journal:
August 20, 2002
Writing from the roof of the only guesthouse in town -- a tiny mud building whose three rooms are full, so matts accommodate the overflow under the stars. The moon is my silver blanket. Goats and sheep bleat in their nightly rituals, a snarling of tangled dogs in the not so remote distance, the chatter of yet another language and the hush mutterings of 13 Toronto students and their 2 teachers. (Small world, indeed!) This is my home tonight.
Boundaries were broken by Kony, a 20-year-old village boy who excused his fresh behaviour with a story that I reminded him of his first girlfriend, a Canadian from Vancouver who shares my name. It was a challenge to judge his behaviour, not having a point of reference for accepted social protocol. Thankful he respected my insistence that he lay off and change his approach to our connection.
While the sun began to fall from the day's long, white heat, Kony's mother, who speaks no English, sifted flour and began preparing the supper to which I was invited. She allowed me to photograph her with a filthy but radiant child. Later I ate, remembering to touch only my right hand to the food. Mother and Father had already eaten when I dined with Kony and his friend Solay from Accra.
A gritty millet mush to ball and dip into a thin okra and groundnut soup. So many fantasies of my favourite foods as I forced my way through slightly more than half of this bland and sandy experience. But I was thankful there was no meat to add to the challenge!
Visited Larabanga's 600-year-old mosque and later, the so-called "Magic Stone" on the edge of town where Kony and I shared stories and songs in this bright night. The gates of my heart wavered between open and shut and my secret weapon of pepper spray remained close at hand. Vigilant always while wanting to trust.
_____________________________________________
I'm still finding it novel to see goats, sheep, pigs and chickens wandering through urban centres. Always wonder how it is known who they belong to.
A few examples of the ongoing array of funny shop names:
"Read The Bible Beauty Saloon"
"Don't Blame Money Entertainment"
"Blood of Merciful Christ Spare Parts"
A few observations:
Men seem completely uninhibited about fondling their genitals in public. They also piss almost wherever they want to, including right in front of the many posted signs stating "Do not urinate here" or "Only the stupid urinate here".
Women have no qualms about pulling a breast out of their clothing to give it a good scratch before stuffing it back in -- on a bus, on the street, wherever.
Other toilet matters:
I was slightly taken aback while at a rest stop on the bus trip from Accra to Kumasi. I looked for a washroom in the dark and a man asked casually, "Do you wish to urinate?" No euphemisms here! I said yes, and he pointed out the women's urinals. Just a semi-private stall with a slight groove on the floor to drain urine into a series of troughs in the pavement.
At most public facilities you must pay a small fee which varies depending on whether you plan to piss or shit. Only if you announced your intentions for the latter, will you receive a piece of torn newspaper to take with you to a series of holes in the pavement, usually with no doors to offer any privacy. The stench is overwhelming and I avoid looking at the teeming maggots feasting within the waste; Ugh!!! Oh I do long for some of the comforts of home!
_________________________________________________________
I'm starting to feel a little worn down by the constant attentions of young men. Everywhere I go they see that I'm alone and either see an opportunity to cash in on a potential guiding job or see me as a ticket to the developed world if they could just snare me with their charms.
Although there have been times when I've appreciated some help and have enjoyed the company of some very sweet fellas, often I prefer just to roam on my own and drink in with all my senses the new surroundings. I'd like to be left to contemplate these new experiences without the distracting challenge of making small talk in French. Last night I enjoyed an escape from this with a many relaxing hours in my hotel room just writing, doing a bit of yoga and meditation, practising my efforts at learning to juggle, and continuing to enjoy Jeannette Winterson's "Powerbook". (Thankful for your recommendation, Rebekah!)
Tomorrow -- onward to Mali!
Thanks to all who have sent words of love and encouragement. I'm appreciating you more than ever!
Flying Pygmies in Mali
Bonjour mes amies!
What follows is long and detailed. Forgive me if it is too verbose and don't feel obliged to make your way through it all if time or interest is lacking. For me it feels like the next best thing to spending time with you and I have plenty of time to kill today in Bamako, Mali.
After 6 weeks, despite my best efforts to remain on guard, I got duped in Burkina. I bought a bus ticket which turned out to be completely invalid. Won't bother with details, but just relay that, thanks to this unsavoury character, I ended up out a few bucks and stuck in Bobo-Diolasso two days longer than planned. However, this turned out to be a blessing in disguise as I was thus able to spend more time with Salia, the musician I wrote of previously. That turned out to be a very good thing full of music and even a scooter ride out to a picturesque village outside the city. So depite a degree of disappointment in myself for having allowed myself to be deceived, I managed to roll with the punches and move on a little wiser.
When I finally did board the bus, it was quite an experience. About 30 of us -- with me the only foreigner -- crammed into the small and decrepit vehicle. I had about 10 inches to squeeze my butt into while a woman suckled her baby girl and fed her two boys all within another 15 inches of space. As with all my bus experiences in Africa, at every stop, women and girls flock to the windows hawking various foodstuffs and drinks. It's very colourful and energetic. We were stopped by police and customs officers about 15 times throughout long night and made to disembark. Deep into the night we arrived at some major kind of checkpoint where everyone got off and laid down at the side of the road to sleep. The one english-speaker, a Ghanaian man, spoke through the dark, "Canadian, aren't you cold?" to which I chuckled and shrugged, replying only with: "I'm Canadian!" Later as we proceeded, it began to rain through the broken window leaving me wet, cold and tired, but knowing the memory of that journey would remain with me forever.
Upon my dawn arrival at the crossroad heading to my destination of Djenne, I caught a ride to the famous market in a car with three Polish folks and their guide Aly. I ended up tagging along for the next week.
Visiting the town of Djenne was like stepping not only into another world but also into a century long past. Surrounded by muddy water, the entire town resembles an overachiever's sand castle. The mosque dominates the landscape and, on market day, is surrounded by hundreds of colourfully dressed merchants and their often equally colourful wares. Wished I could have had a spy camera to make covert portraits of these people. But it was awkward enough feeling like such a voyeur with my eyes, peering with fascination and awe into their very different world.
The geography of Mali is the most magnetic to me of all that I've seen so far. Perhaps I feel that way simply because of its unique difference from any of the many western landscapes I've travelled. A strange mix of desert sand and vibrant grasses, unusual trees and, of course, the imposing Bandiagara Escarpment which defines the Dogon Country and into which hundreds of ancient homes have been constructed.
August 27/02
Dogon Country, Mali
Laying me down again on a mud roof under the cover of a dark night. Staying in the most picturesque part of Africa I have encountered to date. The Dogon people make aesthetics an important part of their domestic environment. Even details such as locks for wooden gates are beautifully carved works of art.
When I awake, I will behold again the sight of a 700-year-old village built into the face of a gigantic escarpment. Incredible to gaze upon it from this charming campement and watch with my imagination the comings and goings of the many generations who made a life in this fascinatingly vertical environment.
It was also a pleasure to dine by lantern-light with such an international group of people. The Poles, a Dutch couple. Enjoyed further french practice with two groovy middle-aged Belgian women.
Had the immense pleasure of renting a villager's horse to ride the 6km beween villages this afternoon. 'Twas a bit of a splurge and the saddle was incredibly uncomfortable, but all the same, it was a rich experience and satisfying to cause quite a spectacle for the locals who clearly found it unusual and amusing to behold a woman -- especially a white one -- on horseback!
Going to attempt sleep now while still many converse, donkeys bray, and the symphony of insects kicks into full volume.
August 28/02
Didn't sleep much. Only one inch of padding on this mud roof and the foolish roosters began answering the echoes of their own crowing while the moon was still high and bright. Hours later the village quickly comes to life. Women pound millet with long pestles next to a silver cascade which falls from the top of the ancient cliff. Others walk into the golden morning light, heads bearing large pots of water as they have each morning on that same path while countless moons and lives have completed their cycles. Little has changed here. I feel I am travelling through time as much as visiting remote cultures.
While so much action quickens the village, the pygmy ghost town remains a silent enigma on the cliff's face. I am thrilled with an intense curiosity as I gaze upon these hundreds of rectangular houses, some with wooden legs to help them cling to almost vertical foundations.
Later I climb up to that cliffdweller's world and discover evidence of the diminuitive stature of the pygmies. No doorway is more than 4.5 feet tall. Many of the human-made structures are so inaccessible it belies the imagination how on earth this kind of life could ever have been practical. From the ground one looks up at the dwellings several hundred metres above and it is easy to see why the Dogon people of Mali believed that the pygmies could fly!
This countryside of the Dogon escarpment is as close to a pastoral paradise as I have ever found. The villages are so picturesque and their earth tones blend so beautifully with all the rainy season's green that surrounds them. Though the land seems composed mostly of sand, the fields yeild generously corn, millet, beans and the ironically green indigo plants with their lovely yellow flowers.
Men, women and children all seem so connected to eachother and to this land as they work with it so intimately. Each person I pass seems joyful and welcoming despite having little language with which we can communicate. Donkeys and oxen put in their own efforts toward the syngergy of this existence.
The many trees in this landscape are magnificent. Baobab, mango, coconut and others which I cannot name. Tropical birds decorate the trees like the brighest most colourful of jewels and their songs, which are all new to me, serenade this visit to an earthly heaven.
August 29/02
Seated on a granite shelf in yet another spectacular village. This one is a cluster of huts on one side of a deep canyon. On the other side, as I write, children scamper along the rocky steppes like mountain goats. In the valley below a symphony of birdsong rises from the greenery and in the distance, the arrid plains of Mali reach for the Sahara.
Totally loving it here in the pastoral paradise of the Dogon. What a good life they seem to have here living so close to the land with no external authority figures. But life is simple and there are few choices beyond the daily grind of sustenance. Despite my fascination as a voyeur of their lifestyle, I have also a heightened appreciation of the options open to me as a woman of the West. Had a great discussion with a young woman in Mopti about the almost inescapable plight of most women here. She said most are married by 13, generally not to someone they love. They are pregnant by 14 and spend the rest of their lives in the neverending cycle of cooking, washing and childrearing. Many must also sell food or other wares at the market or to passing buses or elsewhere on the street. Their husbands marry up to three other women who all live under the same roof. She said that most often there is jealousy and violence between the wives to the extent that babies get harmed. This is besides the common fact of abuse by the husband perpetrated on his stressed-out, overworked women. Ugh. Counting my blessings!
__________________________________________________
Tomorrow I board a train for Dakar, Senegal which should take around two days. I've heard from other travellers that it's extremely hot and stinky and to watch my belongings at all times for theft is rampant. Yahoo. I plan to leave Dakar immediately and head for a beach where I'll rent a hut, relax and take djembe lessons for 5 or 6 days before flying back to Ghana to wrap up this crazy wonderful adventure. Need to wind down from all this intense movement. Much as this has all been such a rich experience and there is more to come, I can definitely say that I'm beginning to look forward to so many of the comforts of home, both material and emotional. Oh for steamed brocolli and a mountain of tofu! A bath, my bed with no need for a mosquito net! A movie with good friends and, perhaps most of all, to walk my streets without a constant need to guard against mostly harmless but annoying harrassment.
Rich in heart and soul but a little worn out.
Loving thoughts of all you wonderful folks!
Jen/Juke
Music News
Took a bit of a risk last night by choosing to share a bed at the tiny apartment of my new friend Salia here in Bobo-Dioulasso, Burkina Faso. Enjoying the good feeling that my intuition proved trustworthy. This sweet man has shown me nothing but respect, even if he did display sexy intentions when we first laid ourselves down. Much as I feel quite a gut trust in him and have craved the comfort of touch, I just don't feel I can fully relax into the offer even of just a massage while my vigilance as a woman traveling alone guards me every minute. Kinda frustrating but feel strong in that sense of defence.
Salia is a well-respected 30-year-old musician who has connected with me on that plane and brought me to some great places where I've shared in music-making and dancing. I met him two nights ago while eating up some delicious live rhythms at a night club called The Bamboo. Last night I played djembe under the still bright moon by a sacred river in the ancient quarter of town. All red mud buildings with no hard edges and so many tiny alleys. It was such a privilege to join these incredible musicians. There were two balaphones (a large African xylophone), a shekere (shaker gourd), a dundun (the horizontal bass drum) and three other djembes. Also danced up a storm with Salia.
I had also thrilled in jamming with many of those same players inside one of those ancient homes that afternoon. I recorded it on my minidisc and turns out that may lead to my possession of a new love -- an instrument called the kamelen-ngoni. This instrument is featured in the music of one of my favourite singers from Mali, Oumo Sangare. It's a 6-stringed sort of cross between a harp and a lute. It's like the little brother of the kora, albeit with lower voice. (The kora has up to 40 strings and mastering it is a huge feat to accomplish.) I've offered to produce a demo cd for these guys from my recordings and package with a nice design in exchange for a custom built kamelen-ngoni for which I would only pay postage. Really excited about this proposition and hope it all works out!
Onward to Mali!
Hot but not too bothered,
Jen
Winding Down in Senegal
"I was happy with the lightness of being in a foreign city and the relief from identity it brings." -- Jeannet Winterson, Powerbook
Can relate well to that while at the same time feeling I've learned so much about my own identity being in a place where life is lived so very differently.
I'm in Dakkar, Senegal-- the most modern of all cities I've visited. Unfortunately, also the most expensive. Plan to check out Youssou N'Dour's club tomorrow night in the hopes of catching some good live music. Apparently he often hits the stage himself Saturday nights sometime around 2am. He is revered like Senegal's Michael Jackson. I asked an American peace corps volunteer her opinion on arriving solo and she seemed to feel it should be no problem as long as I took a cab to the door. Can't help but still feel wary though as I can't walk 10 feet in this city without more of the harmless yet very annoying harrassment I've grown used to. Getting so sick of that!
Sunday morning I'll split the city and head to the back at Malika where I look forward to a week of utter relaxation and some djembe lessons after being worn down by all this constant movement, the harrassment and the crappy food.
Sept 4/02
Bamako, Mali to Dakkar, Senegal train
Seated on an old green train, happy I chose to wear pants despite the heat for sitting two days on my dirty vinyl chair. Confident against theft with my pack locked to its shelf. Feeling once again quite alien surrounded by Africans speaking more Bambara than French. Even the bit of French is difficult to interpret with the thick African accent that distorts it. But it is through the recognition of all the difference that I am learning more qbout who I am. Some men are arguing loudly about seating -- as if it makes such a difference. So much curfuffle!
Hawkers walk the train with water, baked goods, clothing, fans and cigarettes. Whoooo! The man coming to sit next to me just hit me with the tsunami of his b.o.
8:35am and the old iron snake sputters and twitches with its first movements of this long journey to Dakkar.
______________________________
35 hours I've rolled on these tracks. At each stop food and produce hawkers swarm the train and there is much yelling, pointing and reaching through the windows. Bundles of the tooth scrubbing sticks, bags of okra, boiled eggs, peanuts and other things are pulled in as the train belches back into motion. Men haul large enamel bowls down the aisle, dishing out shiny blobs of meats to those who ask. The greasy slabs are cut with large stained knives and served up on torn bits of brown paper. Thankful I brought my cucumber and avocado but disappointed, although not surprised, that my baguette is yet another example of the gritty culinary offerings of the Sahel.
______________________________
The young man said,
"You look at us and you see we are laughing
but in our hearts we are dangerous."
He spoke of stolen opportunities,
poverty stalling education,
bitterness between family members
and the sadness of knowing the difference
between his life and mine.
He said he knew that in the West,
families more often offer support
in the face of the suffering of their own.
But he did not speak to me with anger.
I looked at him and he was soon laughing again
but I could see the danger in his heart.
This boyscocut of Niger
cleancut in khaki shirt
spoke of dreams of Alaska
and the professor who would host him there.
Money was the issue
and the professor sent him some.
But his mama had her own ideas
of how it best best be spent.
Her own dreams to grasp at
and so few helping hands;
a chance to lighten the weight
of her waning years
instead of this young man's.
All I could offer was compassion
for the sharing of his tale
and through the laughter in his eyes
I saw the danger in his heart.
__________________________________
Sept 5/02
Kidira, Senegal -- on the train
What an endless night. Victorious in verbal battles with bribe-hungry border officials. Thanks to the tips of my boyscout friend and an American Peace Corps woman I got out of paying a bogus 30 dollar fee.
Sept 6/02
outskirts of Dakkar -- still on the train
Ugh. 47 hours on this dirty, smelly train. Drinking little and eating less partly to avoid the necessity of visiting the eye-burning stink of the toilet where it's a challenge not to let the puddle flow into my sandals. Dying for a shower but the Polish travellers with whom I shared a dorm in Bamako packed up all my toiletries, sunscreen and also my anti-malaria medication. Good thing I'm headed for a fairly developed city where replacing those things should be a relatively easy, albeit expensive prospect. Actually looking forward to the supposedly western feel of Dakkar as I'm starting to feel quite homesick for the cleanliness and so many other comforts of home. All the evidence of hardcore poverty which has bombarded my senses for so long has also worn me down. Feeling incredibly fortunate for my place in the privileged Western world. While I am far from owning the roof over my own head, the apartment I rent is far nicer than any of the dwellings I've seen in the seven weeks I've travelled. Most here don't own a tenth of what I do in terms of electronic equipment, music recordings and instruments, clothing and books. Always remember to be grateful for what I've got.
Epilogue
"I want to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life."
-- Henry David Thoreau, Walden
It's the last chapter, folks. A lengthy one. Feel no obligation to read it all but, if time is tight, perhaps leap to the happy ending that follows a lot of bitching!
Look forward to seeing you all soon.
xox jen/juke
September 6th, 2002
Malika Beach, Senegal
Rasta Beach. Wonder why they even bother acting so covertly with the passing around of ganja and accoutrements! Constant reggae on the stereo at this seaside bar with its grass roof and sand floor.
Befriended by a Wollof giant called Brima who is one of the caretakers at this cheery campement. Had a very rootsy, interesting evening with him in the village which ostensibly constitutes "downtown" from this rustic resort. Visited his friend, the reggae singer Général, with whom we prepared a yummy supper of beans and veggies with lots of spice. It was a pleasure to indulge in my long lost love of cooking, though a different experience with only a small table, no sink, one knife and a propane burner. What squalid lives are lived by so many here. Tiny, one-room apartments, no electricity, no plumbing, no fan and sand everywhere. No wonder everything runs on "African Time". It's going to feel like such strange luxury to return to a stove with four burners, a food processor with electric lights and my choice of music playing as I cook!
The Senegalese furvor for soccer is evident in all the enthusiastic exercising the young men do on the beach mornings and evenings. Enjoyed observing some lovely gals rehearsing their dance routine this evening with the head drummer providing his parts only with his voice. Much like the tradition of East Indian drumming, I have learned that Senegalese drummers first learn rhythms vocally before laying a finger on the drum. Took a lesson earlier from this troupe's "chef" and enjoyed observing a little surprise in his discovery that I actually knew a few things! Four more days of djembe study and fun to come.
Really missing my regular exercise routines. This magnificent beach beckons to my desire for a long, meditative run. But fear of the unwanted result of drawing further male attention to myself keeps me sedentary. Unfortunately, though the beach here is beautiful as any, the water's power is so strong that one really can't swim. All one can do is frolick a bit in the shallow waves to cool off from the relentless African heat.
I am entertained by the fact that, despite the millenia of footprints, the sandy slate of beach is virgin again with each pull of the moon.
'Twas nice to be beckoned by a small group of girls for a chat on the beach today. They were french speakers, unlike so many of the less educated women, so we were able to have a jovial conversation. Wish so much I could have spoken with those women washing clothes at the wee river in the Dogon country of Mali, or at least that I'd had an instrument on hand to speak to them with. There is only so much smiling and hand shaking one can do before communication is exhausted without language. But what a priceless memory -- how that cheerful young girl found me strolling, took my hand and led me to the river where all those colourfully dressed Dogon women were doing laundry and bathing children.
September 10
Malika Beach, Senegal
I am so ready to be home again among my people amidst all that makes my life unique in that very interesting and comfortable culture that is mine. Starting to slip from my grounding as a voyeur and feeling the need for the comforts of familiarity. Even the task of speaking french all day is exhausting. The problems with garbage here bring me down, too. Spent at least an hour being escorted by my friend (and would-be suitor) Jean to a beach with more swimable waters only to find that there was so much of Dakkar's trash all over the sand and slapping against me in the waves. Tankers and colossal fishing vessels in one direction and the hideous Shell refinery in another. The emissions from the buses that brought me there were so bad that I could barely keep my eyes open to see across the muddy street. Dreams of rural Canada with its space and fresh air and of sweet, green Ireland come to my spiritual rescue.
September 11
Malika Beach
Funny how I'm feeling a bit lonely and yet exasperated by how difficult is is to spend time uninterrupted by dozens of men's efforts to chat throughout every day. I came to this campement hoping for time to spend reflecting and projecting and the only place I can do that is cloistered away in my dark little hut. Now if only the flies would respect my privacy here. So many flies. Passing the days not without continued rich experiences but with so many thoughts of my friends and family and the uncertain new chapter that shall soon unfold.
September 14
Inflight Dakkar to Accra
What a tragedy it is that here in this poverty-stricken, overpopulated land, a woman's worth is judged mainly by how many children she bears. If she is not married with a child before her twentieth year she is not considered to have contributed her duty to her community. How hard it has been to feel respected when endeavouring to respond to the inevitable question of, "How many children do you have?". I attempt to explain that my creative life is paramount and that it is already difficult to find the time for both my art and the work which pays my bills. The common statement which ensues is that producing children should be my priority. Alternative choices are unfathomable to this culture. And yet they agree when I point out that there would be far less poverty suffered if this rate of reproduction was reduced. They just don't get it. If I could clone myself, my other life would be spent, in part, educating the women of underdeveloped nations. I would aim to open up choices to them and alleviate the oppression they suffer as full-time baby making machines.
September 15
Accra, Ghana
Just when I had begun to feel I'd reached my limit of tolerance for so many of the challenging aspects of this journey, I've enjoyed the relieving sense of coming home again in Accra starting with the satisfying sense of knowing my way around the airport this second time around. Comfortably knowing how to shake off the would-be guides, knowing the price to insist on for my cab to the hotel and then greeting warmly my familiar hosts at that same Hotel de California where I had stayed a month ago.
My friend Kobby greeted me that evening, as planned. I shared travel stories with him and then Ali Baba, my rasta drummaker pal escorted me to a highlight of all my African nights -- a club called The Next Door which is situated right at the beach. The stage and dancefloor are outdoors overlooking the frothy waves which crash onto an expanse of fairly flat rock. That was an incredible place to sit and suck back the salty breeze with a beer while the superb "Pink Five" highlife band played at my back. On the dancefloor, I shook my thang, thankful for the chance to work my body and rid myself of so much of the accumulated stress of intense travelling. What a fine release! So great to get down to the groove of a rockin' bassist after so long enjoying only traditional instruments. Made me jones for playing, though, more than ever.
September 16
Dagbamete, Ghana
Perched on the water tower -- the old haunt of Keirann, Christa and I. Still relieved by this sense of 'coming home' despite the reality of home being on the dark face of our dear shared planet as I write in the bright heat of this village afternoon. Welcomed back with such love and joy, I am amazed at the degree of familial bonding that had been forged by my month here. Children ran into my arms, the women's voices greeted my descent from the white van with a cheery chorus of "Juke! Jennifer! You are welcome!". These people have indeed succeeded with their promise of making this a second home.
The soundscape of goats, roosters, Ewe chat and distant drums that was once so fascinatingly new, is now soothingly familiar after the constant flux that I've wandered through in the last month. Here my senses happily remember the smell of the homefires and what they cook, the red earth and the particular varieties of baobab and palms.
Yet still, I am excited to head to Amsterdam tomorrow to taste once again the sweet fruits of the developed world. Happy to have a couple days there to bridge between the vastly differing experiences of Africa and Canada. First stop: organic vegetarian feast. Second stop: desperately desired haircut!
The Ghana Chapter
Well, typical of the inconvenience of the internet service here, I just typed for about 20 minutes and the computer crashed. And I have a line of people breathing down my neck waiting to use the terminal. So this will have to be much briefer than I had hoped.
I'm in Accra, the capital, on a day trip right now. Most of my time has been spent in the tiny rural village of Dagbamete where the drum master and his extended family live. It's been a wonderful experience being welcomed so warmly into this community of about 250 people. I was surprised to discover that though English is the official language of Ghana, very little of it is spoken anywhere outside the major centres. So I've been doing my best learning basics of their tribal language of Ewe.
I took part in a thanksgiving ritual at the village shrine where people had come from all around to give thanks for previous prayers which had been answered. They had to bring chickens or goats offer as sacrifices and strangle them at arm's length while the drums thundered. I had the strange privilege of being invited to join in the drumming while the goats seemed to scream, "Nooooo! Nooooo!". This vegetarian had to try very hard to shed her preconceptions and fight back tears. After the animals were dead, their throats were slit and blood was dripped into chalices around the shrine. Then they were butchered and put to cook in small pots over wee fires tended by children under a very picturesque, bright moon.
Meanwhile, the drumming continued and dancing began in the shrine, which is really just a big roof with posts holding it up. Smiling, open-hearted villagers grabbed us "yavous" (white people) and dragged us into the dancing. It was a great honour to be included, but creepy to realize I was dancing barefoot on freshly splattered blood!
Another remarkable experience was my first visit to the local rural market day. I'm so glad to have started this trip with the three weeks hosted at Dagbamete because we enjoy the benefits of having an escort on such occasions as the market visit. It would have been almost unbearably overwhelming to arrive at such a place alone as the only westerner in a dense crowd of noisy merchants and shoppers. Even the merchandise was about 40% mysterious! All manner of strange herbs and chunks of stuff! I was there with the village's seamstress to purchase material for the traditional outfit to be worn at our performances and at traditional celebrations. She introduced me to the fine art of bargaining which has been quite a hoot, though intimidating at first. Trying to make a choice when there was stall after stall of magnificent hand-dyed material was next to impossible.
So you oughtta see me in my full skirt, headwrap and shirt, all girly girly! Not surprisingly, I'm more attracted to a lot of the men's wear and will be breaking tradition by having Angeline make me some of that.
Took a day trip to Togo last week and enjoyed the endless beach of the city of Lome. All palm trees and coconuts. So much delicious fruit! I fear I'm gonna be so sick of rice very soon. That is the main course of almost every meal. I have ventured into eating fish, as I suspected I would need to in order to get my protein. It's been ok. There is an endless supply of yummy coconuts at the village which I enjoyed drinking and eating frequently.
We were guests of honor at the drum and dance festival at a neighbouring village yesterday. It was fantastic but it felt really weird to get in the van at the end and feel like the Rolling Stones circa 1966 leaving the venue of a concert. Throngs of kids clambouring all over the van and chasing it down the road. The whole privilege experience is just as uncomfortable as I thought it would be. It doesn't help that Kwasi, our drum instructor, is, along with his brother the village priest, the most respected man in the entire district due to his wealth and power, and of course, the fact that he lives in the highly revered West much of the year. His cell phone is ever present and always ringing. Cell phones are seen as such status symbols that you even see fabric printed with giant cellphone images in the market. So when we tour about with him it is like we are the king's court and treated as such. It's advantageous when it comes to breezing through police road blocks and customs, but I'm looking forward nevertheless to experiencing the last 5 weeks of my trip without the prestige of his hosting, much as it has been fun and full of his wonderful warmth and charm. Can't say I don't have some serious anxiety about the solo part of the journey though. I don't worry so much about my physical safety, just that I will probably have to deal with constant efforts people will make to take advantage of my privilege and my ignorance.
Well, I should wrap up, though I could go on for another hour.
Ghana: Chapter Two
Hello to all my favourite people! I hope this finds you all well and
living a little dream each day or at least happily working towards one.
[There is arabic on this keyboard. Wild!]
I'll start with a page from my journal during a long stretch in the
village away from email.
July 29, 2002
Hanging out on a lazy afternoon here in Dagbamete. Village women scrub laundry, kids scamper about, laughing, shouting and squealing. The wind hushes through the lush trees. Ewe conversations paint my soundscape with new sounds. Lizards blaze a spritely dance across walls and rooftops.My toes brush the soft red sand that covers all that is not building, tree or bush.
How is it that I feel at once so alien and yet so at home? Perhaps it is the combination of loving, friendly people and the familiar comfort I find when surrounded by nature. I am also witnessing so much universality in human interaction, despite the vastly different culture. But it's true, I can't deny discovering a heightened appreciation for certain aspects of my own culture -- variety, convenience and the smooth efficiency we can expect from most of our business and bureaucratic transactions. Expecting and enjoying a certain level of hygene in city life is a luxury which ought not be taken for granted. Accra is the capital of Ghana -- a large city -- and, in some areas, rather than underground sewers, all the liquid filth flows (or stagnates) in troughs between the walkways and the streets. Quite a stench! And Makola Market women sell allmanner of foodstuff right there in the stink.
I'm feeling a little starved for protein and fresh, uncooked vegetables and fruit. Dreaming of a big plate of tofu with brocolli and a large, fresh salad. Hope it's just those cravings which explain this frequent weariness. Needing iron, protein and calcium. Have continued to eat some fish when I can't get beans. Have even had to live with the fact that most vegetable sauces (and sauces are ubiquitous) are cooked with a meat base. Sometimes I've even managed to stomach the unmistakable taste of goat in my food. Unfortunately, even the seemingly innocent beans and rice are often cooked in meat stock. Haven't downed any chunks, though. There I draw the line. Yuck! Goats are way too cute to eat!
August 2nd
Cape Coast, Ghana
Haunted severely by the echoes of misery in the slave "castle" at Elmina. Standing on the very stones which housed hundreds of thousands of the estimated 20 million captured Africans as they awaited transportation to their unspeakable fates was heartbreaking and horrifying. Women crammed into a dungeon for 3 months at a time with no choice but to create a reeking mess with their urine, feces, vomit and menstrual blood, fed barely enough to stay alive and packed in with hardly room to lie down. I tilted my head back for a moment's escape from these horrible imaginings but was only faced with thinking of being one of those women as she passed countless hours of suffering gazing at that same ceiling from her few filthy inches of
floor, dreaming of better times.
My journal goes on with further details of these horrors. I'll spare you.
Thankfully, the depressing but educational tour was followed by a walk through the treetops of the Kakum Rainforest. Engulfed by the majesty of nature at her most lush and monumental. Seemed I was again a somewhat reluctant invader as a primate who no longer belongs so high in those jungle trees. But I did find it exhilarating to walk the seven narrow suspension bridges and look down and out from the platforms built around each of the six giant trees in between.
_____________________________________
Myself and the other visitors to Dagbamete were let down by the lack of drum class that ended up occuring in the so-called "intensive" 3-week workshop. Rather than the 5 hours a day specified in our schedule, I think we ended up having about 9 classes. Our teacher is indeed a very busy man with innumerable responsibilites, but he needs to hire an assistant. Still,it was a pleasure hanging out and being taken care of at the village and the many field trips have been rewarding. Went several times to the Arts Centre Cultural Market in Accra and have ordered an excellent custom carved djembe which is going to cost only $46Cdn with case! I need to make some dough to get out of debt when I return so I've bought a second one just to sell.
They go for at least $350 new in Canada.
Had a really fun night hanging with some of the young men one night in the village. They sparked a spliff and ended up performing some of their Ewe rap for me. I'm hoping to use recordings from that plus cds of their favourite locals rappers for a Global Village report. Haven't come across any other news worthy of reporting on but have recorded all kinds of cool sounds:insects, birds, drumming galore, bats etc.
There was a wonderful farewell party for all us North Americans on our last night in the village. The whole village came out for dancing and drumming and much akpeteshi flowed. (That is a gut-burning spirit made from palm wine.)
I left the village and met up with two NYC gals I had the pleasure of meeting in the nearby larger town of Akatsi. They were volunteering at an orphanage. Weird how volunteering works these days though. They paid as much as we did for our workshop to work for one month. But they too have had life-altering, rewarding experiences. So I returned to Accra with these girls -- Cherry and Christina. We dropped sistah (ya!) Cherry off at the airport then booked the Hotel de California for the night. We met some really great locals there, one who will take me to hear some live highlife upon my return to Accra.
The next couple of days we spent at a veritable Backpacker's Club Med at a beach called Kokrobite about 2 hours from Accra. It was a tropical paradise complete with windswept palm trees, naked boys playing in the surf, and Rastas drumming on the gorgeous beach. Christina and I shared a sweet little round thatched hut and enjoyed food that offered a refreshing change from village fare. We had a blast bodysurfing in the waves of the Gulf of Guinea and relaxed, writing copiously in our journals. I also enjoyed a tour Kobiete, the son of a local chief who showed my his monkey sanctuary and then took my on his canoe through the river channels which feed into the ocean. Unfortunately I arose too late to see the monkeys at play, but the jungle was rewarding enough to gaze upon in all its magnificent lushness. We also went to the beach where I watched lines of as many as 20 fishermen pulling in their nets, some groups singing to their lone percussionist's rhythms. (I'd want that job!) Apparently they pull from early in the morning for as much as 6 hours. I was able to witness the shimmer of thousands of different types of silver fish in a few of the nets as they were finally pulled onto the sand. The nets also contained shrimps, lobsters, octopus and jellyfish.
Despite all the rewarding pleasures, one of the things that is not so nice about this culture is that I have to constantly expect people to try to squeeze me for money. Even once you've bargained down to an agreed price, many will try to insist on more when the deal is closing. I had a long and frustrating argument with Kobiete after our tour where he tried to get me to believe I had agreed to a higher price than I know I had. This shit happens all the time and wears me down. Much as it's cool to be able to bargain down to great prices much of the time, I'll be happy to get back to notn having to engage in a lengthy discussion everytime I buy something or pay for a service.
The next day I accompanied Christina back to Accra to fly off and now, the day has come -- I'M ALONE! It's a little scary but I've been well prepped. And so this afternoon I'm going to the airport to book my flight which will take me back from Dakar, Senegal to Accra on September 14. I was hoping that would be cheap like all the other modes of transportation I've tried, but it's biting a $440US hole in my line of credit. Ouch!
I'm thinking of spending the night back at Kokrobite, lulled by the waves. Then tomorrow I pick up my visa from the embassy of Mali and begin my solo journy north. Kumasi is the next stop. That is the ancient capital of the Ashanti Kingdom. It will get hotter and more expensive as I continue through Tamale then out of Ghana into Burkina Faso, then Mali, and finally Senegal.
French Immersion
Hello my Canadian friends and family!
Eek! I'm a bit discouraged by the very different french configuration of this keyboard. I'm in Bobo-Diolasso in the Burkina Faso and this is day three of my immersion into french language and culture. It's remarkable how much of French culture has remained in this part of Africa. Immediately upon crossing the border from Ghana, so many smoked cigarettes and drove mopeds like some french film!
So much has occured since my last update it would be impossible to touch on it all. I've travelled solo from the south coast of Ghana up through the Ashante Kingdom to Tamale in the north.
In Kumasi I became quick friends with a Twi woman I sat next to on a bus. She runs a beauty "saloon" and has a son, a dancer who dreams of emigrating to Canada. So she had him show me all around town in exchange for the answering of his many questions and then hosted me at her salon, enthusiastically introducing me to friends and other family members. It was a happy cultural exchange at the end of which she insisted on taking my measurements for a traditional outfit she would make for me that afternoon. I returned that evening to collect my gift and enjoyed further hospitality with the gang. I told her I would remember Kumasi for its incredibly friendly people!
A few hours on a ridiculously packed and hot bus from Tamale I visited Mole National Park where I had the joy of close contact with elephants, warthogs, antelopes, monkeys and baboons. I sacked in a dorm with 14 young travellers from the British Isles whose company I enjoyed for a couple days.
Then a visit to the tiny Muslim town of Larabanga described by the following excerpt from my journal:
August 20, 2002
Writing from the roof of the only guesthouse in town -- a tiny mud building whose three rooms are full, so matts accommodate the overflow under the stars. The moon is my silver blanket. Goats and sheep bleat in their nightly rituals, a snarling of tangled dogs in the not so remote distance, the chatter of yet another language and the hush mutterings of 13 Toronto students and their 2 teachers. (Small world, indeed!) This is my home tonight.
Boundaries were broken by Kony, a 20-year-old village boy who excused his fresh behaviour with a story that I reminded him of his first girlfriend, a Canadian from Vancouver who shares my name. It was a challenge to judge his behaviour, not having a point of reference for accepted social protocol. Thankful he respected my insistence that he lay off and change his approach to our connection.
While the sun began to fall from the day's long, white heat, Kony's mother, who speaks no English, sifted flour and began preparing the supper to which I was invited. She allowed me to photograph her with a filthy but radiant child. Later I ate, remembering to touch only my right hand to the food. Mother and Father had already eaten when I dined with Kony and his friend Solay from Accra.
A gritty millet mush to ball and dip into a thin okra and groundnut soup. So many fantasies of my favourite foods as I forced my way through slightly more than half of this bland and sandy experience. But I was thankful there was no meat to add to the challenge!
Visited Larabanga's 600-year-old mosque and later, the so-called "Magic Stone" on the edge of town where Kony and I shared stories and songs in this bright night. The gates of my heart wavered between open and shut and my secret weapon of pepper spray remained close at hand. Vigilant always while wanting to trust.
_____________________________________________
I'm still finding it novel to see goats, sheep, pigs and chickens wandering through urban centres. Always wonder how it is known who they belong to.
A few examples of the ongoing array of funny shop names:
"Read The Bible Beauty Saloon"
"Don't Blame Money Entertainment"
"Blood of Merciful Christ Spare Parts"
A few observations:
Men seem completely uninhibited about fondling their genitals in public. They also piss almost wherever they want to, including right in front of the many posted signs stating "Do not urinate here" or "Only the stupid urinate here".
Women have no qualms about pulling a breast out of their clothing to give it a good scratch before stuffing it back in -- on a bus, on the street, wherever.
Other toilet matters:
I was slightly taken aback while at a rest stop on the bus trip from Accra to Kumasi. I looked for a washroom in the dark and a man asked casually, "Do you wish to urinate?" No euphemisms here! I said yes, and he pointed out the women's urinals. Just a semi-private stall with a slight groove on the floor to drain urine into a series of troughs in the pavement.
At most public facilities you must pay a small fee which varies depending on whether you plan to piss or shit. Only if you announced your intentions for the latter, will you receive a piece of torn newspaper to take with you to a series of holes in the pavement, usually with no doors to offer any privacy. The stench is overwhelming and I avoid looking at the teeming maggots feasting within the waste; Ugh!!! Oh I do long for some of the comforts of home!
_________________________________________________________
I'm starting to feel a little worn down by the constant attentions of young men. Everywhere I go they see that I'm alone and either see an opportunity to cash in on a potential guiding job or see me as a ticket to the developed world if they could just snare me with their charms.
Although there have been times when I've appreciated some help and have enjoyed the company of some very sweet fellas, often I prefer just to roam on my own and drink in with all my senses the new surroundings. I'd like to be left to contemplate these new experiences without the distracting challenge of making small talk in French. Last night I enjoyed an escape from this with a many relaxing hours in my hotel room just writing, doing a bit of yoga and meditation, practising my efforts at learning to juggle, and continuing to enjoy Jeannette Winterson's "Powerbook". (Thankful for your recommendation, Rebekah!)
Tomorrow -- onward to Mali!
Thanks to all who have sent words of love and encouragement. I'm appreciating you more than ever!
Flying Pygmies in Mali
Bonjour mes amies!
What follows is long and detailed. Forgive me if it is too verbose and don't feel obliged to make your way through it all if time or interest is lacking. For me it feels like the next best thing to spending time with you and I have plenty of time to kill today in Bamako, Mali.
After 6 weeks, despite my best efforts to remain on guard, I got duped in Burkina. I bought a bus ticket which turned out to be completely invalid. Won't bother with details, but just relay that, thanks to this unsavoury character, I ended up out a few bucks and stuck in Bobo-Diolasso two days longer than planned. However, this turned out to be a blessing in disguise as I was thus able to spend more time with Salia, the musician I wrote of previously. That turned out to be a very good thing full of music and even a scooter ride out to a picturesque village outside the city. So depite a degree of disappointment in myself for having allowed myself to be deceived, I managed to roll with the punches and move on a little wiser.
When I finally did board the bus, it was quite an experience. About 30 of us -- with me the only foreigner -- crammed into the small and decrepit vehicle. I had about 10 inches to squeeze my butt into while a woman suckled her baby girl and fed her two boys all within another 15 inches of space. As with all my bus experiences in Africa, at every stop, women and girls flock to the windows hawking various foodstuffs and drinks. It's very colourful and energetic. We were stopped by police and customs officers about 15 times throughout long night and made to disembark. Deep into the night we arrived at some major kind of checkpoint where everyone got off and laid down at the side of the road to sleep. The one english-speaker, a Ghanaian man, spoke through the dark, "Canadian, aren't you cold?" to which I chuckled and shrugged, replying only with: "I'm Canadian!" Later as we proceeded, it began to rain through the broken window leaving me wet, cold and tired, but knowing the memory of that journey would remain with me forever.
Upon my dawn arrival at the crossroad heading to my destination of Djenne, I caught a ride to the famous market in a car with three Polish folks and their guide Aly. I ended up tagging along for the next week.
Visiting the town of Djenne was like stepping not only into another world but also into a century long past. Surrounded by muddy water, the entire town resembles an overachiever's sand castle. The mosque dominates the landscape and, on market day, is surrounded by hundreds of colourfully dressed merchants and their often equally colourful wares. Wished I could have had a spy camera to make covert portraits of these people. But it was awkward enough feeling like such a voyeur with my eyes, peering with fascination and awe into their very different world.
The geography of Mali is the most magnetic to me of all that I've seen so far. Perhaps I feel that way simply because of its unique difference from any of the many western landscapes I've travelled. A strange mix of desert sand and vibrant grasses, unusual trees and, of course, the imposing Bandiagara Escarpment which defines the Dogon Country and into which hundreds of ancient homes have been constructed.
August 27/02
Dogon Country, Mali
Laying me down again on a mud roof under the cover of a dark night. Staying in the most picturesque part of Africa I have encountered to date. The Dogon people make aesthetics an important part of their domestic environment. Even details such as locks for wooden gates are beautifully carved works of art.
When I awake, I will behold again the sight of a 700-year-old village built into the face of a gigantic escarpment. Incredible to gaze upon it from this charming campement and watch with my imagination the comings and goings of the many generations who made a life in this fascinatingly vertical environment.
It was also a pleasure to dine by lantern-light with such an international group of people. The Poles, a Dutch couple. Enjoyed further french practice with two groovy middle-aged Belgian women.
Had the immense pleasure of renting a villager's horse to ride the 6km beween villages this afternoon. 'Twas a bit of a splurge and the saddle was incredibly uncomfortable, but all the same, it was a rich experience and satisfying to cause quite a spectacle for the locals who clearly found it unusual and amusing to behold a woman -- especially a white one -- on horseback!
Going to attempt sleep now while still many converse, donkeys bray, and the symphony of insects kicks into full volume.
August 28/02
Didn't sleep much. Only one inch of padding on this mud roof and the foolish roosters began answering the echoes of their own crowing while the moon was still high and bright. Hours later the village quickly comes to life. Women pound millet with long pestles next to a silver cascade which falls from the top of the ancient cliff. Others walk into the golden morning light, heads bearing large pots of water as they have each morning on that same path while countless moons and lives have completed their cycles. Little has changed here. I feel I am travelling through time as much as visiting remote cultures.
While so much action quickens the village, the pygmy ghost town remains a silent enigma on the cliff's face. I am thrilled with an intense curiosity as I gaze upon these hundreds of rectangular houses, some with wooden legs to help them cling to almost vertical foundations.
Later I climb up to that cliffdweller's world and discover evidence of the diminuitive stature of the pygmies. No doorway is more than 4.5 feet tall. Many of the human-made structures are so inaccessible it belies the imagination how on earth this kind of life could ever have been practical. From the ground one looks up at the dwellings several hundred metres above and it is easy to see why the Dogon people of Mali believed that the pygmies could fly!
This countryside of the Dogon escarpment is as close to a pastoral paradise as I have ever found. The villages are so picturesque and their earth tones blend so beautifully with all the rainy season's green that surrounds them. Though the land seems composed mostly of sand, the fields yeild generously corn, millet, beans and the ironically green indigo plants with their lovely yellow flowers.
Men, women and children all seem so connected to eachother and to this land as they work with it so intimately. Each person I pass seems joyful and welcoming despite having little language with which we can communicate. Donkeys and oxen put in their own efforts toward the syngergy of this existence.
The many trees in this landscape are magnificent. Baobab, mango, coconut and others which I cannot name. Tropical birds decorate the trees like the brighest most colourful of jewels and their songs, which are all new to me, serenade this visit to an earthly heaven.
August 29/02
Seated on a granite shelf in yet another spectacular village. This one is a cluster of huts on one side of a deep canyon. On the other side, as I write, children scamper along the rocky steppes like mountain goats. In the valley below a symphony of birdsong rises from the greenery and in the distance, the arrid plains of Mali reach for the Sahara.
Totally loving it here in the pastoral paradise of the Dogon. What a good life they seem to have here living so close to the land with no external authority figures. But life is simple and there are few choices beyond the daily grind of sustenance. Despite my fascination as a voyeur of their lifestyle, I have also a heightened appreciation of the options open to me as a woman of the West. Had a great discussion with a young woman in Mopti about the almost inescapable plight of most women here. She said most are married by 13, generally not to someone they love. They are pregnant by 14 and spend the rest of their lives in the neverending cycle of cooking, washing and childrearing. Many must also sell food or other wares at the market or to passing buses or elsewhere on the street. Their husbands marry up to three other women who all live under the same roof. She said that most often there is jealousy and violence between the wives to the extent that babies get harmed. This is besides the common fact of abuse by the husband perpetrated on his stressed-out, overworked women. Ugh. Counting my blessings!
__________________________________________________
Tomorrow I board a train for Dakar, Senegal which should take around two days. I've heard from other travellers that it's extremely hot and stinky and to watch my belongings at all times for theft is rampant. Yahoo. I plan to leave Dakar immediately and head for a beach where I'll rent a hut, relax and take djembe lessons for 5 or 6 days before flying back to Ghana to wrap up this crazy wonderful adventure. Need to wind down from all this intense movement. Much as this has all been such a rich experience and there is more to come, I can definitely say that I'm beginning to look forward to so many of the comforts of home, both material and emotional. Oh for steamed brocolli and a mountain of tofu! A bath, my bed with no need for a mosquito net! A movie with good friends and, perhaps most of all, to walk my streets without a constant need to guard against mostly harmless but annoying harrassment.
Rich in heart and soul but a little worn out.
Loving thoughts of all you wonderful folks!
Jen/Juke
Music News
Took a bit of a risk last night by choosing to share a bed at the tiny apartment of my new friend Salia here in Bobo-Dioulasso, Burkina Faso. Enjoying the good feeling that my intuition proved trustworthy. This sweet man has shown me nothing but respect, even if he did display sexy intentions when we first laid ourselves down. Much as I feel quite a gut trust in him and have craved the comfort of touch, I just don't feel I can fully relax into the offer even of just a massage while my vigilance as a woman traveling alone guards me every minute. Kinda frustrating but feel strong in that sense of defence.
Salia is a well-respected 30-year-old musician who has connected with me on that plane and brought me to some great places where I've shared in music-making and dancing. I met him two nights ago while eating up some delicious live rhythms at a night club called The Bamboo. Last night I played djembe under the still bright moon by a sacred river in the ancient quarter of town. All red mud buildings with no hard edges and so many tiny alleys. It was such a privilege to join these incredible musicians. There were two balaphones (a large African xylophone), a shekere (shaker gourd), a dundun (the horizontal bass drum) and three other djembes. Also danced up a storm with Salia.
I had also thrilled in jamming with many of those same players inside one of those ancient homes that afternoon. I recorded it on my minidisc and turns out that may lead to my possession of a new love -- an instrument called the kamelen-ngoni. This instrument is featured in the music of one of my favourite singers from Mali, Oumo Sangare. It's a 6-stringed sort of cross between a harp and a lute. It's like the little brother of the kora, albeit with lower voice. (The kora has up to 40 strings and mastering it is a huge feat to accomplish.) I've offered to produce a demo cd for these guys from my recordings and package with a nice design in exchange for a custom built kamelen-ngoni for which I would only pay postage. Really excited about this proposition and hope it all works out!
Onward to Mali!
Hot but not too bothered,
Jen
Winding Down in Senegal
"I was happy with the lightness of being in a foreign city and the relief from identity it brings." -- Jeannet Winterson, Powerbook
Can relate well to that while at the same time feeling I've learned so much about my own identity being in a place where life is lived so very differently.
I'm in Dakkar, Senegal-- the most modern of all cities I've visited. Unfortunately, also the most expensive. Plan to check out Youssou N'Dour's club tomorrow night in the hopes of catching some good live music. Apparently he often hits the stage himself Saturday nights sometime around 2am. He is revered like Senegal's Michael Jackson. I asked an American peace corps volunteer her opinion on arriving solo and she seemed to feel it should be no problem as long as I took a cab to the door. Can't help but still feel wary though as I can't walk 10 feet in this city without more of the harmless yet very annoying harrassment I've grown used to. Getting so sick of that!
Sunday morning I'll split the city and head to the back at Malika where I look forward to a week of utter relaxation and some djembe lessons after being worn down by all this constant movement, the harrassment and the crappy food.
Sept 4/02
Bamako, Mali to Dakkar, Senegal train
Seated on an old green train, happy I chose to wear pants despite the heat for sitting two days on my dirty vinyl chair. Confident against theft with my pack locked to its shelf. Feeling once again quite alien surrounded by Africans speaking more Bambara than French. Even the bit of French is difficult to interpret with the thick African accent that distorts it. But it is through the recognition of all the difference that I am learning more qbout who I am. Some men are arguing loudly about seating -- as if it makes such a difference. So much curfuffle!
Hawkers walk the train with water, baked goods, clothing, fans and cigarettes. Whoooo! The man coming to sit next to me just hit me with the tsunami of his b.o.
8:35am and the old iron snake sputters and twitches with its first movements of this long journey to Dakkar.
______________________________
35 hours I've rolled on these tracks. At each stop food and produce hawkers swarm the train and there is much yelling, pointing and reaching through the windows. Bundles of the tooth scrubbing sticks, bags of okra, boiled eggs, peanuts and other things are pulled in as the train belches back into motion. Men haul large enamel bowls down the aisle, dishing out shiny blobs of meats to those who ask. The greasy slabs are cut with large stained knives and served up on torn bits of brown paper. Thankful I brought my cucumber and avocado but disappointed, although not surprised, that my baguette is yet another example of the gritty culinary offerings of the Sahel.
______________________________
The young man said,
"You look at us and you see we are laughing
but in our hearts we are dangerous."
He spoke of stolen opportunities,
poverty stalling education,
bitterness between family members
and the sadness of knowing the difference
between his life and mine.
He said he knew that in the West,
families more often offer support
in the face of the suffering of their own.
But he did not speak to me with anger.
I looked at him and he was soon laughing again
but I could see the danger in his heart.
This boyscocut of Niger
cleancut in khaki shirt
spoke of dreams of Alaska
and the professor who would host him there.
Money was the issue
and the professor sent him some.
But his mama had her own ideas
of how it best best be spent.
Her own dreams to grasp at
and so few helping hands;
a chance to lighten the weight
of her waning years
instead of this young man's.
All I could offer was compassion
for the sharing of his tale
and through the laughter in his eyes
I saw the danger in his heart.
__________________________________
Sept 5/02
Kidira, Senegal -- on the train
What an endless night. Victorious in verbal battles with bribe-hungry border officials. Thanks to the tips of my boyscout friend and an American Peace Corps woman I got out of paying a bogus 30 dollar fee.
Sept 6/02
outskirts of Dakkar -- still on the train
Ugh. 47 hours on this dirty, smelly train. Drinking little and eating less partly to avoid the necessity of visiting the eye-burning stink of the toilet where it's a challenge not to let the puddle flow into my sandals. Dying for a shower but the Polish travellers with whom I shared a dorm in Bamako packed up all my toiletries, sunscreen and also my anti-malaria medication. Good thing I'm headed for a fairly developed city where replacing those things should be a relatively easy, albeit expensive prospect. Actually looking forward to the supposedly western feel of Dakkar as I'm starting to feel quite homesick for the cleanliness and so many other comforts of home. All the evidence of hardcore poverty which has bombarded my senses for so long has also worn me down. Feeling incredibly fortunate for my place in the privileged Western world. While I am far from owning the roof over my own head, the apartment I rent is far nicer than any of the dwellings I've seen in the seven weeks I've travelled. Most here don't own a tenth of what I do in terms of electronic equipment, music recordings and instruments, clothing and books. Always remember to be grateful for what I've got.
Epilogue
"I want to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life."
-- Henry David Thoreau, Walden
It's the last chapter, folks. A lengthy one. Feel no obligation to read it all but, if time is tight, perhaps leap to the happy ending that follows a lot of bitching!
Look forward to seeing you all soon.
xox jen/juke
September 6th, 2002
Malika Beach, Senegal
Rasta Beach. Wonder why they even bother acting so covertly with the passing around of ganja and accoutrements! Constant reggae on the stereo at this seaside bar with its grass roof and sand floor.
Befriended by a Wollof giant called Brima who is one of the caretakers at this cheery campement. Had a very rootsy, interesting evening with him in the village which ostensibly constitutes "downtown" from this rustic resort. Visited his friend, the reggae singer Général, with whom we prepared a yummy supper of beans and veggies with lots of spice. It was a pleasure to indulge in my long lost love of cooking, though a different experience with only a small table, no sink, one knife and a propane burner. What squalid lives are lived by so many here. Tiny, one-room apartments, no electricity, no plumbing, no fan and sand everywhere. No wonder everything runs on "African Time". It's going to feel like such strange luxury to return to a stove with four burners, a food processor with electric lights and my choice of music playing as I cook!
The Senegalese furvor for soccer is evident in all the enthusiastic exercising the young men do on the beach mornings and evenings. Enjoyed observing some lovely gals rehearsing their dance routine this evening with the head drummer providing his parts only with his voice. Much like the tradition of East Indian drumming, I have learned that Senegalese drummers first learn rhythms vocally before laying a finger on the drum. Took a lesson earlier from this troupe's "chef" and enjoyed observing a little surprise in his discovery that I actually knew a few things! Four more days of djembe study and fun to come.
Really missing my regular exercise routines. This magnificent beach beckons to my desire for a long, meditative run. But fear of the unwanted result of drawing further male attention to myself keeps me sedentary. Unfortunately, though the beach here is beautiful as any, the water's power is so strong that one really can't swim. All one can do is frolick a bit in the shallow waves to cool off from the relentless African heat.
I am entertained by the fact that, despite the millenia of footprints, the sandy slate of beach is virgin again with each pull of the moon.
'Twas nice to be beckoned by a small group of girls for a chat on the beach today. They were french speakers, unlike so many of the less educated women, so we were able to have a jovial conversation. Wish so much I could have spoken with those women washing clothes at the wee river in the Dogon country of Mali, or at least that I'd had an instrument on hand to speak to them with. There is only so much smiling and hand shaking one can do before communication is exhausted without language. But what a priceless memory -- how that cheerful young girl found me strolling, took my hand and led me to the river where all those colourfully dressed Dogon women were doing laundry and bathing children.
September 10
Malika Beach, Senegal
I am so ready to be home again among my people amidst all that makes my life unique in that very interesting and comfortable culture that is mine. Starting to slip from my grounding as a voyeur and feeling the need for the comforts of familiarity. Even the task of speaking french all day is exhausting. The problems with garbage here bring me down, too. Spent at least an hour being escorted by my friend (and would-be suitor) Jean to a beach with more swimable waters only to find that there was so much of Dakkar's trash all over the sand and slapping against me in the waves. Tankers and colossal fishing vessels in one direction and the hideous Shell refinery in another. The emissions from the buses that brought me there were so bad that I could barely keep my eyes open to see across the muddy street. Dreams of rural Canada with its space and fresh air and of sweet, green Ireland come to my spiritual rescue.
September 11
Malika Beach
Funny how I'm feeling a bit lonely and yet exasperated by how difficult is is to spend time uninterrupted by dozens of men's efforts to chat throughout every day. I came to this campement hoping for time to spend reflecting and projecting and the only place I can do that is cloistered away in my dark little hut. Now if only the flies would respect my privacy here. So many flies. Passing the days not without continued rich experiences but with so many thoughts of my friends and family and the uncertain new chapter that shall soon unfold.
September 14
Inflight Dakkar to Accra
What a tragedy it is that here in this poverty-stricken, overpopulated land, a woman's worth is judged mainly by how many children she bears. If she is not married with a child before her twentieth year she is not considered to have contributed her duty to her community. How hard it has been to feel respected when endeavouring to respond to the inevitable question of, "How many children do you have?". I attempt to explain that my creative life is paramount and that it is already difficult to find the time for both my art and the work which pays my bills. The common statement which ensues is that producing children should be my priority. Alternative choices are unfathomable to this culture. And yet they agree when I point out that there would be far less poverty suffered if this rate of reproduction was reduced. They just don't get it. If I could clone myself, my other life would be spent, in part, educating the women of underdeveloped nations. I would aim to open up choices to them and alleviate the oppression they suffer as full-time baby making machines.
September 15
Accra, Ghana
Just when I had begun to feel I'd reached my limit of tolerance for so many of the challenging aspects of this journey, I've enjoyed the relieving sense of coming home again in Accra starting with the satisfying sense of knowing my way around the airport this second time around. Comfortably knowing how to shake off the would-be guides, knowing the price to insist on for my cab to the hotel and then greeting warmly my familiar hosts at that same Hotel de California where I had stayed a month ago.
My friend Kobby greeted me that evening, as planned. I shared travel stories with him and then Ali Baba, my rasta drummaker pal escorted me to a highlight of all my African nights -- a club called The Next Door which is situated right at the beach. The stage and dancefloor are outdoors overlooking the frothy waves which crash onto an expanse of fairly flat rock. That was an incredible place to sit and suck back the salty breeze with a beer while the superb "Pink Five" highlife band played at my back. On the dancefloor, I shook my thang, thankful for the chance to work my body and rid myself of so much of the accumulated stress of intense travelling. What a fine release! So great to get down to the groove of a rockin' bassist after so long enjoying only traditional instruments. Made me jones for playing, though, more than ever.
September 16
Dagbamete, Ghana
Perched on the water tower -- the old haunt of Keirann, Christa and I. Still relieved by this sense of 'coming home' despite the reality of home being on the dark face of our dear shared planet as I write in the bright heat of this village afternoon. Welcomed back with such love and joy, I am amazed at the degree of familial bonding that had been forged by my month here. Children ran into my arms, the women's voices greeted my descent from the white van with a cheery chorus of "Juke! Jennifer! You are welcome!". These people have indeed succeeded with their promise of making this a second home.
The soundscape of goats, roosters, Ewe chat and distant drums that was once so fascinatingly new, is now soothingly familiar after the constant flux that I've wandered through in the last month. Here my senses happily remember the smell of the homefires and what they cook, the red earth and the particular varieties of baobab and palms.
Yet still, I am excited to head to Amsterdam tomorrow to taste once again the sweet fruits of the developed world. Happy to have a couple days there to bridge between the vastly differing experiences of Africa and Canada. First stop: organic vegetarian feast. Second stop: desperately desired haircut!
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