Dakar, Senegal when I first arrived

This is video from the first morning I arrived in Senegal! One is from a bit later. They are rooftop scenes which I liked a lot. There's sadly no sound because I forgot my video editting software in the US. Anyways you can listen with your imagination. So think bird chirpping and calls to prayer and random phrases in Wolof, which since you don't speak it, sound exacly as they sounded to me!

The Bitter Skin, of Sweet Fruit

I’ve spoken about the beauty of Senegal and Mali and how remarkable their cities are. They are lovely. Truly, I am taken aback, floored by the majesty of the places I’ve been. As I said I was caught unsuspecting by this aspect of Africa.

Often when I’ve thought of Africa it’s been in regards to the fact that she is my mother. African Americans are African purely and beyond the shadow of a doubt. Yet so often we are completely unaware that we are actually an island, small populations of our people living isolated from the titanic land, and sea of peoples and nations from which we’ve come. My perspective has been that I, and we, need to reconnect with this place that we’ve come from. I’d been given the rare opportunity to see the immesurable wealth and ageless knowledge of Africa by professors who had learned about these things and this exposure engendered my perspective. Africa and our cultures there proposed solutions to many of our problems as African Americans and I looked towards Africa as a teacher, toward her knowledge as an obligation, a lifeline, and potentially salvation for our people in the west who are loosing themselves.

Upon arriving in the place however I have been amazed at the fact that she is Spain, Hawaii, and the Carribean. She is an alluring, hypnotizing, amazing beauty, a get away, Mexico for spring break etc. I didn’t know, nor did I have a hint of this fact. I thought Mali was the desert. The whole section of Mali I’ve been in is lush, warm, and the flora is much like my home in the south, with a few more tropical trees and plants sprinkled in. The people are Black people without the stress, domination, and existence largely on the margins of another society. So swag is up, bright colors are in, children play in the streets and the law rather than the niggardly exception is cool, polyrhythm, and ease. A paradise, if not for everyone, certainly for Black people. All these things are true, but let me tell you, the beauty is not without her scars, and my struggles to do my work here have been daunting to say the least. Let me tell you now a little bit about the otherside of this lovely adventure.

I don’t know I’ve experienced a situation this uncomfortable since diaper days. I can’t talk. I have been in Bamako a week and almost everyone around me speaks not a lick of English. I know greetings and can say hello, and I know a list of words. I am an eloquent person. If not then I love eloquence and he’s a good friend of mine. I was more a fan of his work with Barack Obama during the election than after the election, but still. We’ll he died on the plane ride over. I can only communicate with one word at a time almost all day. So lets think about what that means. Any thing that is conceptual? You can’t talk about it. Like for instance please can you tell me where to buy toilet paper. Or I’d like to leave the house now, but will be gone a few hours, and though I can’t communicate I have to get out of here or I’m going to crack. I cannot go anywhere I can’t walk because I can’t tell a taxi how to get me back home, nor do I understand the words for like $1, $2, $3.

Do you feel me yet? I’m functionally a baby. Okra is in all the food. Okra is an aquintance of mine, but not nessecarily my best friend. Ya dig? Okra is great for you though. It’s a laxative. So today trying to examine the rocks around here which seem amazingly to all be iron ore, the Okra attacked me and I barely made it home. Yikes. At times children laughingly talk to me knowing I can’t talk back and don’t understand, people watch me as a passing oddity and I feel very much at home, yet not quite able to get in the front door. There is a truth I am well familiar with that one must be reborn again and again to truly progress on the path of knowledge. I believe the bible says that one must become like a child to enter the kingdom of heaven, the kingdom of heaven is all around them yet they do not recognize it, the kingdom of heaven is within you and you must be born again to enter the kingdom. I’m not quoting here, but paraphrasing. I’ve experienced the truth of these things in my life, but this time I’ve truly become a baby, incapable of the most basic things. As humans growing in a linear progression from child to adult maybe only the old truly recognize how much we take for granted in the all powerful, all encompassing cycle and circle, or life.

Of course this means my work is stalled until I learn the language. The language is actually Malinke, Bambara and French, so I should say I must learn the languages. I haven’t the slightest problem with the idea, in fact learning languages is supposed to make you smarter, and I love expanding the mind. But how do you learn a language when you can’t be taught because no one around speaks enough English to teach you. Hmm interesting. This simple fact, so obvious as the be completely missed when I was planning my trip, transparent like air, has now become incredibly thick and humid as certain Tallahassee summers. My homeboy Ayinde encouraged me to learn as much as I can the other night. I appreciated it. So let me tell you, I’ve learned to differentiate the sound of words so that I here speaking sometimes now rather than Charlie Brown noises. I’ve learned that people are often saying words I know and can respond to, but because they speak them fast, mumble them, say them when they are not looking at you, say part of them, or some other thing I may only understand that communication has be elicited and given up on a moment after the fact. In fact, at times I thought people were just mumbling something, when they were actually mumbling something, barely looking at my while walking me, but to me. I’ve also learned that language teachers and translators get paid US money, not the Mali money I was led to believe. I’ve had a hard time finding anyone who can speak English enough to teach me because, well the dollar isn’t what it was and people need money to live their lives. After all the costs of getting here, I don’t have enough to pay for anyone who isn’t essentially volunteering their time, and everyone here is on the grind. Eventually I’ll make it to the university and ask some younger people, who would be more likely to volunteer, but that will be after I learn how to say turn here, and I live in Kalabancoro.

So can anyone say doldrums. Can anyone say floating adrift on a windless sea for a week, unable to leave the neighborhood, without a bit of breeze to fill the sails. So I learn my numbers and the names of rocks and trees, body parts, and the days of the week just like any good second grader, and nod in my head to my beautiful, wonderful lineage of masters and Gurudev, yes this posses a great opportunity to loose the ego.

You see the ego… is firmly rooted, in our sense of power with our ability to poop, choose the food we eat, leave the block, and have some sort of fashion sense. On the bus trip over we sweated hours on end, but didn’t get to bathe for two days and one night. The lovely drivers chose to stop near water and when inside somewhere and slept while we sat up waiting for 6 to 8 hours and mosquito hell, amidst stampedes of donkeys, and other night monsters. During that time my ego couldn’t even hold on to its ability to bathe itself. Imagine the fright and wonderful new flavors and smells on that baking bus without windows that opened yet open mosquito-highway doors.

So it seems I’m being reborn. I wonder what type of person I’ll be in this incarnation. This degree of being forced to de and reconstruct has to be an entrance to a remarkable wealth of new vision and opportunity right? How often do you get to be transformed at such a deep level that you experience being unable to bathe and speak again? I’m telling you, I’m coming back with superpowers! If I’m not flying and bulletproof, I’ll at least be able to hold hot metal in my hands without being burned. Lol!

The Artisans of Bamako

I came to Mali seeking a Blacksmithing tradition established it seemed before the dawn of time. I would speak with people who still remembered ancient things about land and nature; how to extract steel from stone like rain from the heavens, an old magic. I would connect with something timeless and make art inspired by history... buuut on the way there I found these young boys out here doing some really creative work in the city. Bamako's artisans really look to me as if the prisons, crack-game, weed industry, and just plain idleness had been lifted high in the sky like a carpet, shaken mightily and all the young black men fell out and became artists. Everywhere young men are working metal with torches and hammers. Boys plane wood and make doors with creative designs in them, huge beds, furniture, you name it. Even more amazing is that almost every house has their work decorating it. All the houses have the doors these young men have made, the stylized window bars, etc. The tools made are sold right down the street and bought and used by everyone. Just imagine if the Black neighborhood actually produced its own things, they all had unique creative flair, and the same neighborhood bought all of this work so that it looked like a standing art gallery. I am inspired by the creativity and ingenuity. They make ventilated doors, which you cant see through, but ar can move through while locked. Perfect for a place that is always hot. I could list things and be here all night, but I wont. I'll do it another day. Till then take a look...

Lovely Farafina (Africa)

Well folks at home, what can I say? Africa is remarkably beautiful. I was truly unprepared. Dakar is a city by the ocean like my own gorgeous Seattle. Brilliant green trees and plants pop out of every nook and cranny, as Black folks here seems love to decorate with flowers and greenery. In Dakar the greens splash across sandy streets and alleyways, contrasting against its yellow tan. In Bamako a slightly darker and brighter green strikes out against the purple-red earthen streets and against the blue sky snatching ones breath away for just a moment. The streets in neighborhoods are narrow sometimes without sidewalks and always peopled by Black folk going somewhere, busy doing something. The architecture is cement block in Dakar, with building painted in different colored pastels. I think of pictures I’ve seen of Morocco, Spain and some places in Mexico but on dim. In Mali the houses are cement block, but have been painted earth tones, with the brightest crops I’ve ever seen growing where regular plants grew in Dakar. The business sections of both towns are busy. Bamako is more dirty and quite creatively put together, with Dakar truly looking like everyone moved out of San Francisco and Africans from all over West Africa moved in. The weaving patterns of traffic just make you smile at our people because no one is coloring, or driving for that matter, in the lines, everyone is one their own rhythm, but it all fits together seamlessly without a crash, bump or disturbance. In Dakar it’s the Karabit and the taxis, the former painted with rainbow colored praises to Allah, streamers and several young boys standing, hanging out of the back. The taxis are all yellow and black, each with some sort of magic charm hanging from the back. In Bamako young men and some women all ride these little scooters everywhere. The flow of it all is Amazing, I’ll record it for you all, but you’ll have to wait till I get back to see that one. Technical difficulties.

Everywhere Black people are employed and busy. No one is idle. Funny enough though, many people look idle, just chillin’ somewhere, but you better believe they are working to. I am in love with the approach. Everyone is up earlier getting it, working, but everyone is moving at their own pace, and everyone is cool with it. People jump on a bus and don’t pay. You might go several blocks before the young teenager in charge asks quite off handedly for your money. Some people still don’t pay it, just chillin. But it gets done, there no hustling there, people pay their money. Everything is like that. So things have this interesting rhythm, I might sing the call part of the song, and you might say nothing back, moments later you sing out a beautiful response and I call immediately again. You respond, then I hang out for a second, and sing back. The feeling generated is total ease, so people are working all day, but many look like they are having a grand ole time. The educated people get better jobs working for larger businesses. The rest of society is in the streets, every street, selling, buying, making something. Innovation is as rich as the colors in African clothes. People are making every type of tool, ventilated shutters for doors, ironwork to protect windows, keeping and slaughtering goats and selling barbeque all day long, millions of taxis, an endless sea called suguba (Bambara for the market), finishing wood and making furniture and so on. Random horses, herds of cattle, and goats stand, make their way, or are herded through city streets amidst cellphones, laptops, past internet cafes, banks, and Black people in every manner of fly African clothes, Western clothes, and stylish blend of the two, dirt covered or otherwise. Dirt is everywhere but so are the water pots used for washing off and cooling down and people do so frequently.

Everyone is Muslim it seems, but that is saying nothing. You have Peul and Fula Muslims likely a more traditional type, amongst Maurits, Tijan people, the Bifal(forgive my likely incorrect spelling). Some people are strictly Muslim while others will tell you about every manner of traditional African society, tradition you name it. The magical charms or fetish can be seen here an there, amidst people wearing village clothing, and then quite modern western people who may or may not pray any of the five times a day depending on their schedule. Yet I’ve seen most everyone wash themselves and center themselves, face the east and pray to God. On friday, it seems to be their sunday. People will go to the mosque, but I’ve seen them line the streets with beautiful prayer rugs, all men at certain times, all women at others. You can see all these different people from different walks of life with beliefs different enough to be called different religions stopping their busy day to pray together on sidewalks, in stores, wherever there is space. Some families pray together, maybe on their rooftops which are often set up for people walk use, becoming a mosque for twenty minutes of quite family prayer. I’m not Muslim of course. But I love it, it’s a perfect example of the fact that no religion owns God, and God will be okay, what is important is that people find a common ground upon with to find peace and be human.

I stayed in Dakar for a few days and then traveled to Bamako by bus. Considering the all day plane ride and the two day bus ride I feel a bit like a world traveling wind. They say there is a wind, it’s called a trade wind to be precise, that lifts sand up off the ground in the Sahara desert and drops it the United States. It is always blowing. If I remember correctly there is a storm that happens in the Pacific ocean for months of the year every year that gives Seattle its clouds. I feel something like these huge winds. Certainly those huge winds have stolen my every refinement of speaking reducing me to little more sophistication than that of my sweetheart Tuka tuk (Kiara’s 7 month old). While there are ups and downs the world is filled with beauty and its only been a week. I came to Africa to study, learn things we had lost I could take back to my folk back home as we try to build community and family from ashes. I also came as an artist and student and all those things I’ve spoken of. I’ve found though, a surprising subtle sweetness, more pure fresh cool water on a hot day than honey and wide as a river.

I've arrived in Africa, Dakar, Senegal!

Fri, Sept 4, 2009

Hello everyone, I’ve arrived. I got into Dakar, Senegal at around 4:15am. We got off the plane by going down these steps which were attached on the tarmac and boarded busses which drove us to the baggage claim area. I was taking little photos here and there, sketched a scene rather quickly and then we got off and got in line to pass through customs. I’m not sure it’s called that, but anyways. Standing in line I wrote something like being in a French speaking country is like being halfway awake, you understand bits and pieces of things around you, but not enough to get the jist of what’s going on. My turn comes up and the officer checking passports, Mr. Konate asks where am I staying. Somewhat confused by everything since I left Tallahassee I ruffle through my papers and grin, “uhh actually I don’t have the address, just phone numbers”. Now mind you he speaks English pretty good, but not so good that he understands everything I say and I don’t understand everything he says. He looks like well you are supposed to know where you are staying but uhm… ok. I’ve come to Africa, beautiful land of our ancestors… with not one dollar bill, and apparently no address for where I’m staying. Mr. Konate tirelessly aided me across the next maybe 30 minutes figuring out how to use the ATM to get cfrs, or francs, explaining the currency in relation to the dollar, looking for my welcome wagon, which was not there, calling the numbers I had, the first two not knowing anything about me and barely understanding, calling Tom and his wife my contacts in the US for the family I was staying with and reaching Djibi who would then come and pick me up. Whew. I wasn’t really worried, but Mr. Konate was like, translation into Southern American slang; man you when you come to Senegal you gotta have an address, goodness, or maybe greeeaat-day.

Outside the airport Dakar looked like the hood back in Seattle, or in Tallahassee. Mad people just walking around chillin’ hanging out. I was like wow, I’m back in the neighborhood. Same, same. As people walked near me, or just passed saying what’s up in French, which I didn’t understand, mumbling “uhh, hi” I pondered the stick up and the hustle. I wasn’t really trying to talk, cause my experience is people be tryin’ to hustle. In the time it took to get my ride situated, though, I noticed something. First all the Black people milling around were working. Entreprenuers. People were taxi drivers, selling phone cards, changing money, everything. Not really on the grimy tip either, they were doing business at 4:00 in the morning. They didn’t have the US come-up vibe I’m used to and I didn’t get one crazy look or feel. I liked that. I like seeing Black people together in a space without the threat of guns, or crime. I see it more these days, but I liked seeing it here and I respected the hustle, working/chillin’ no matter the hour.

Waiting for Djibi to arrive I spoke with a man named Ali. He spoke English better than the officer. He told me he was Mandinka and when I told him I was only in Senegal briefly and headed to Mali he was excited saying good and that it was the center of ancient African culture in the region. He said they learn English in school, and as a few people have told me thus far, everybody speaks it a bit in Senegal. After small talk for a bit a told him I was going to study numu and donso tradition in Mali. I remembered chasseur and forgeron, the French words for hunter and blacksmith when he didn’t understand me. When he got me he was excited again, he said “oh they are mystics man” pointing to his head. “They are mystics, they are going to give you something good.” (I’m quoting, but paraphrasing a bit because I don’t remember the exact words) “I’m telling you they have the old culture. They will stick their hands in the fire…” he tells me as he demonstrates emphatically, “… the red fire and pick up a piece of hot metal and not be burned.” “They will stick their hands in to fire and not be.” “uhh, what? You mean like disappear?” “Yes.” “They will give you a [belt] (I don’t remember the word be used I think it started with a k) and if someone tries to cut you, or stab you they can’t because you are protected.” Now this is a particularly interesting point. Ali is part of the Mandinka diaspora, people leaving central Mandeland for other countries like Liberia, Sierra Leone, Guinea, Gambia, Cote d’Ivoire etc. The kamajor are a hunting group related to the donso and the Mande diaspora. In a book written by an author I forget entitled “In the Land of the Magic Soldiers” a young kamajor fighter described a having a belt that did the same think. He was initiated into the kamajors when Freetown was under attack and was given a belt which he described as tightening when enemy forces were near and protecting from bullets. He described the feel when they hit and bounce off leaving holes in your clothes but not the skin. So hearing this outside of Dakar’s airport early in the morning about this specific type of belt charm, I found a remarkable cross reference. We talked on about a good many other things before Djibi arrived. I learned it was Ramadan etc.

Djibi arrived, thanked Ali for watching out for me and we took a taxi to Amadou’s house. Amadou Diarra is Tom’s younger brother, Djibi is Tom’s wife’s brother, Tom knows my mother who is a renowned teacher loved by everyone. Amadou showed me around his neighborhood and we talked for a while. I shot some brief video. Dakar is apparently expensive with lots of people living here. His neighborhood is cool with small businesses in corner rooms like cornerstores run by people younger than me. We could do this in the hood back home no problem at all. The places are small and barred off and just stock whatever you might need locally. I love the entrepreneurial spirit and function of it. The buildings are all different colors with the beautiful vibrant green plants some of which I recognize from Tallahassee some of which are different. There is trash in random places, but I don’t think it’s more than in Bond community (where I used to live in Tallahasse which I loved very much) and people here seem to feel more agency about their lives. Everybody is walking somewhere. The colorful busses jet up and down the roads, I forget their names. People are all over the place which reminds me of the hood in Tallahassee, everyone is walking somewhere. There are lots of bright clothes and they women have beautiful colors and cloths on, I love it. As I’m typing now someone’s cooking and the scent is wafting in Amadou’s little apartment. I’ve been shooting a bit of video, but I wont be able to post it until I get back. I’ll probably shoot with the camera on my laptop later and see if I can show ya’ll something.

Everything is good, everything is grand, Dakar’s weather is sooo much better than Tallahassee, it is good to be out of the swamp. It is hot here, but for instance, I’m sitting in Amadou’s apartment with just a fan on me and I’m not sweating. No airconditioning and it’s peace. Maaan. I’ve learned some greetings in a few languages which I remember from earlier study. Amadou’s people are from Segou, I guess on his father’s side as his mother is from Burkina. When he said Diarra was his last name I said that’s the lion and he said oh you do know a bit about Mali and speak some Bambara. Some… I’ll know more bit by bit. I slept a couple hours but my brain wouldn’t stop. Everything has been like get up and go explore. So I got up and wrote and now I’m f’na be out. One.

I forgot to talk about the flight. It was cool. I made every connection, bathed in the bathrooms as I could so I was comfortable. 22 hours in transit total. The 8 hours trip to Dakar from NY I flew first class, but I dunno, I’m not super concerned with those things. I liked the leg room, but wackly they told us to close the windows while we flew over the ocean so people could sleep, so I didn’t get to muse about the crossing back over the Atlantic since the last time I crossed it in chains. I fell asleep and dreamed we flew in over the coast and landed in Africa. We hadn’t yet, but when we did my experience was much the same. Peace.

The Long Journey to Mali; A Story Not For the Faint of Heart

Finally my date for departure has arrived. I should have been writting about the remarkable journey to get ready to leave but it might horrify children and grown folks alike. In brief retrospect I'm not sure what it was that took 7 months of planning to get here. However, just a bit of thinking recalls a time when I knew no one in, from and nothing about Mali. While I sit in Tampa's airport waiting for my flight to New York maybe I'll tell you the tale...

Once upon a time a young man name Clarence thought about traveling the world. He wanted to go to Africa but where? He desired to achieve the award of awards, the fulbright. The Fulbright was a magic power, as well as a prestigous grant which funded great hero's to live in foriegn countries, to study, learn, research etc. It had the power to grant the person who recieved it a brightness. The brightness would shine through all the worlds, draw good things to them, and help people to see the already present, but often overlooked worth of a person and their dreams. Clarence wanted to go to Sierra Leone and to recieve the fulbright to study there. It was said that in Sierra Leone great horror and atrocities had occured. Some nameless madness first cousin to greed and granchild to colonisation had gripped an entire country. Regular people turned to villans who hacked off the arms and legs of their family members. There was so much killing everywhere, nonmilitary, but civilian killing, that all hope seemed lost. When hope had gone from Sierra Leone an interesting thing was done by some of her people. An ancient tradition of magical hunters began to intiate anyone into their ranks who would fight for the people. Thus the Kamajor were born, and thus was Sierra Leone brought back from chaos. These were the people Clarence wanted to learn from. He would learn the truth of their story from their own mouths, document and by inspired by their heroism and learn something of their magic. Yet the order of heros who granted the fulbright power would not support such a venture. They said even they could not support it due to the effects of the war, but maybe one day.

Clarence had spent quite a bit of time studying Sierra Leone and the Kamajor in hopes of achieving the fulbright. Upon learning his quest could not be undertaken he was forces to change directions. When he found a new direction it was toward Mali. He heard rumors of great men and women there and this time he set out on the road without hopes of achieving the fulbright, but brighteness through his own endeavors, and work.

Clarence new little of Mali and so began the serious study. Reading books, articles and whatever he could he learned of societies of men called Komo, Numu and Donso. He was reminded of the ancient history of Mali and of it's empires Wagadou, Mali, Songhay, Segou and more. All of this took months of study to simply learn what was in the area. Clarence was himself a blacksmith and upon learning about the Numu, the local name for blacksmiths, whose families stretched thousand years back, he was drawn to them.

After researching the region he next had to find blacksmiths to study with if he was to go to Mali. Mali being an ocean away, it's residents speaking a completely different language, and having a totally different culture, was shall we say, remote. Clarence wrote letters (emails, letter sounds better though) to hundreds of scholars around the world on Mali and the people there. Some expressed interest in helping him, but the language barrier was too great. Some could only communicate once in several weeks, and so the quest to make contacts in Mali dragged on. Out of hundreds about 3 names emerged, two of which could not help, one scholar Clarence already knew. Eventually a scholar cited in an article Clarence discovered digging through an obscure library in the countryside (BBC article from 2004) would become Clarence's primary link to Mali. This took almost half a year to come to fruition.

Then their was the raising money. As he raised money offered by his comunity in their support of his quest he had to spend too much to simply live. He was forced to abandon his own house when aa an evil landlord tried to steal huge amounts of money. Secretly hidding with his heroic friend the same landlord began to destory her house. The Evil magic of the landlord forced the temperature to incredible heats, making it almost impossible to work or think. holes emerged in the roof dripping frightening brown water into the house, while water flooded in through the walls and windows. Sewage spilled in from the wall onto the bed of Clarence's friend Kehinde. When it seemed they might go crazy, Kehinde found another place to live, and in one weekend, and recently having moved Clarence the same way, they moved Kehinde and Clarence to a new house. The endless work of lifting and moving was strained by the old evil lanlords magic making every box heavy as boulders, and without rest from move after move, working ceaselessy to get to Mali, Clarence lost a great deal of power. It's was as if his spirit was drifting and becoming lost.

Other personal conflicts began to destroy Clarence's spirit and he ceased to be productive in his work. Clarence could not reach Mali for months even after he had contacts there. When finally finding a secret magical spell to make his letters go through (can't call with a cell, only skype seems efficient, especially now that no one has landlines anymore) Clarence was still ineffective because no one spoke his language. And once again all felt lost. But Clarence never gave up hope. There would be quite a few more trials, but through the powerful magic and blessings of his Mother, Kehinde the good the tireless and constant, and Nzinga the enthusiastic he was able to regain his spirit. Now nothing happens without the blessing of God. No magic moves without God, no prayer is answered either, because God is the pressence that magic, prayer and blessing move on, in and are made of. Also no great action happens thorugh the efforts of one person. Clarence's community, friends, gave and gave. Some people supported him with their hearts, some gave what they had even if only a few dollars, and others with their enthusiam.

Now I sit looking out of the window. Ready to fly accross the seas to Mali and study with her heros to learn about the brilliance in man. I can tell you... it's brighter, and it will continue to grow so, until I and the world are truly full of brightness.