I'll begin my week of productivity with a word on travel in the developed world. I officially crossed over to this forgotten place (Europe) nearly one month ago when I crossed the Strait of Gibralter on the 35-minute ferry ride from Tangier, Morocco to Tarifa, Spain. In the ensuing weeks, I visited four of Spain's World Heritage Sites, including the Alhambra, Generalife, and Albayzin in Granada, the Llotja de la Seda in Valencia, and the historic cities of Córdoba and Toledo. I met up with a couchsurfer for an awesome Celtic festival on the northern coast before returning to Madrid to see Spain win the World Cup for the first time. Then it was off to Paris for Bastille Day celebrations of all sorts.
So you'd think with everything I've seen and done in the past month that I'd have heaps to write and update. Well I don't, and here's my explanation: I'm just not good enough to do it justice. Cities like Toledo, Valencia, and Córdoba have been written about before and will be written of again by writers who are much more elegant and productive than I. Sites like the Mezquita in Córdoba or the Alhambra in Granada are almost too much for a single blog entry. Washington Irving wrote an entire book devoted to stories inspired by the Alhambra, and I'm not going toe to toe with that giant of early American letters. With news coverage and internet video, the only thing I could add to the parties in Madrid and Paris would be my own politicized commentaries, but this isn't the place to run away with criticisms of France's link to long-serving dictators like Paul Biya (Cameroon, 27 years strong!) or Blaise Compaoré (Burkina Faso, 23 years in October, where does the time go?)who were given honorary seats in the July 14th celebrations. And if you saw videos from Spain's World Cup fiesta, you know that words cannot describe the crazy times in the streets of Madrid.
And, let's face it, most people reading this blog probably aren't that interested in Europe's great cities and landmarks, not for any negative reasons, but simply because the Eiffel Tower or the Museo del Prado are so easily visited these days. Get a cheap flight and see them yourself. Don't rely on me to give you any beautiful descriptions. West Africa, on the other hand, is a place which few people know anything about and even fewer visit. It's easy to understand why: with all the places in the world, there are few who would choose an undeveloped country to spend their vacation money. Especially considering that you go to West Africa, not for sightseeing, but to meet the people, which is hard to do if you can't speak French (or Songhai, Hausa, Bambara, Wolof, Fula, etc.) I feel confident that my descriptions of West Africa and my experiences there are somewhat interesting, if only because it's such an unknown part of the world.
So instead of describing Europe, I'm scaling back to focus on my experiences with other people and my interpretations of a world from which I've been away for over two years. This week's blogs will be a lot more personal for sure, but my personal writing has always been, in my view, my strongest suit. And hey, this is an individual blog after all, not a travel website. For me, it's always been a lot more entertaining to write about the horrorshow old lady vomit on the bus through Western Sahara that it is to actually write about Western Sahara (which was eye-gougingly dull). I prefer to tell stories, stories like the one of my bus ride from Madrid to Valencia. I sat next to a Guinean and in front of two Nigerians. Of course, I love talking to any African I can at this point, so I take every opportunity I can get, and we were in the midst of a conversation when KATHUNK!, something broke off from underneath the bus and started it shaking:
Me: I think the wheels are about to fall off this bus.
John (Nigerian man): This can't be right, it sounds like a train!
Tobin (Nigerian woman): It sounds like an African bus.
John: Ya, but African buses can't go this fast. (everyone laughing)
A little while later another KATHUNK, this one from right under my seat. The Guinean gets up and runs to another seat.
Me: What is this , we're not in Africa!
Guinean: Spain is the capital of Africa, they're just like Africans.
John: He's right, see, the driver just keeps on driving like nothing's wrong.
KATHUNK, BOOM!
Tobin: Oh my God, he's going to kill us all.
The bus eventually broke down with a "flat tire," and now we're stuck on the side of the road for 45 mins waiting for another bus to come get us.
Me: You know, if this WERE Africa, we'd have this thing fixed in twenty minutes.
Tobin: Twenty?! Try ten!
John: And we could eat some foufou while we wait!
This is just one of the more recent adventures. In the next few days, I have two more posts, one positive and one negative. For those of you who know my blog well, I like to pair the two so that they can balance and inform one another. They both deal with people and provide a clear distinction between "traveler" and "tourist," and the amazing and not so amazing interpersonal experiences I've had with people on the move and people at rest. Until tomorrow then,
Tschüß!
Showing posts with label Festival. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Festival. Show all posts
Monday, July 19, 2010
Monday, June 14, 2010
West Africa Redux
Whenever I meet new people on the road, I try not to mention the fact that I've been traveling by myself for over six months, if only to avoid the inevitable ten-minute repetition of my past two years. (I continually mention my two years in West Africa here both because anyone who reads this can look back and get the whole story in one long afternoon and because you can't ask any follow-up questions!) But for those who are really curious, those whose eyes widen a little bit whenever I mention Mali, Ghana, or Sierra Leone, the inevitable question is usually, "What was your favorite place?"
And my usual gut reaction is "Are you kidding me?" Ask a student of literature for her favorite book. Ask a film historian to name his favorite flick. Ask my friend Patrick for his favorite paranoid, evil personality from 1928 - 1957. Maybe you could help him out by asking him only to focus on Europe, but really, there are just too many from which to choose. Asking me to choose my favorite place in West Africa is about like asking me to choose my favorite digit. My first inclination, I think I'd have to go with right-hand thumb, but that doesn't mean I'd be fine losing any of the rest.
Instead of launching into this diatribe, however, I usually cock my head and ask, "Of which country?" The truth is, I've seen and done a lot in my two and a half years in West Africa. I can't really give a definitive answer, but I can give you my list of my top travel descriptions. Apologies for continuing to neglect Morocco, but hopefully this Cliff's notes version of my trip can help guide any future questions for whenever I return home. Thus, in chronological order, I give you Sterling's Personal Guide to West Africa.
Abomey, Benin - the old seat of the Dahomey Empire, Abomey is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, but its red-earth palaces, symbols of a kingdom built on slavery, is slowly crumbling back unto whence they. This is one of the best places, though, to look onto the sadistic side of the African slave trade and examine how this bloody, black institution set tribe against tribe to tear one another apart.
Boukoumbé, Benin - a hike deep into the hills reveals the land of the Betammaribé tribe, who resisted slavery by living independently as family units protected by their small, fortress-like houses. Spend a night with a family in a tata house surrounded by rolling green hills and towering baobob trees and you'll feel like you're in the Shire. Just try not to hit any old hobbit women with your slingshot (or blame it on a kid if you do).
Klouto, Togo - deep in the hills and jungle of southern Togo, Klouto is filled with coffee plantations that you can hike through while on the search for beautiful butterflies. If you don't have an inner lepidopterist, you can always check out the abandoned European castle hidden in the trees...
Green Turtle Lodge, Ghana - an ecolodge working on community development along one of the most beautiful stretches of beach in West Africa. A sure place to meet Peace Corps types and to get crunched by some seriously awesome waves.
Kumasi, Ghana - home of the Ashanti, one of the most well-known West African ethnies, famous for their colorful and highly-prized kente and adinkra cloth.
N'guigmi, Niger - not much there but pure white sand. Too bad the nearest ocean is thousands of kilometers away. Go and you'll feel like you're at the end of the earth, or at least the end of your travels. With genocide to the east, a batshit crazy dictator to the north, religo-ethnic conflict to the south, and general famine all around, you'll definitely start to rethink your privileged status as a developed country national.
Banfora to Sindou Peaks, Burkina Faso - I rented a motorbike and took it the 100km there and back all in one day, and what a day it was. The dirt piste is lined with trees the entire way, and hiking around the peaks is a bit like stepping into the scenery from Fraggle Rock. Those who remember that reference get bonus points for having a great childhood.
Dogon Country, Mali - take the road up from Ouaghiya to the Falaise de Bandiagara and get into some real hiking. This is one of the most unique cultural areas in all of Africa, but due to its location in rural West Africa has remained relatively untouched by mass tourism. And the stars...if only you knew.
Sunset Beers on the Niger - whether it's in Niamey, Mopti, Gao, or Gaya, a cold Flag on a hot desert night is pretty unbeatable with those beautiful African sunsets. And with fresh fish brought in that hour by colorful characters in even more colorful pirogues, you're sure of a good meal to go with your beer.
Festival du Desert, Mali - one of the greatest concerts I've ever been to, bar none. A celebration of Tuareg culture, and a great revenue resourse for a severely impoverished people, the Festival du Desert brings together some of the greatest acts in West African music alongside musicians from all over the world. But the focus is definitely the desert, and you won't ever forget that when you're freezing your ass off on your third night in the Saharan winter.
Yamoussoukro, Côté d'Ivoire - check out the previous post on this one from sometime in January. The city was built to glorify former president Houphouet-Boigny's ancestors, but from the looks of it, the only thing the city glorifies is how much money one man can dump into a swamp.
Monrovia, Liberia - maybe less of a tourist hotspot than a fascinating look into a community still trying to rebuild itself after nearly two decades of civil war. Let's examine the amenities: no electricity, no running water, unsafe tap water, and streets that most embassies have put off limits after 9 pm. But if you dare to brave them (carrying no more than $20 at any time) you can have a great night drinking with awesome people on the streets of this awesome town.
Tiwai Island, Sierra Leone - home to eleven different species of primate, including the rare Diana monkey, all on one easy-to-trek island in the middle of the Moa River. Go looking for rare pygmy hippos (good luck), walk through dense jungle, take a river swim (just watch out for the oyster shells), and finish it all up with a fresh-grilled fish caught that morning by your boat guide.
Freetown Beaches, Sierra Leone - by far the best beaches in all of West Africa, and there's something for everyone. Choose any color of powdery sand from pure white to yellow ochre, even sand that turns your feet black. Your food choices may be limited to lobster, oysters, barracuda, and mango, but who needs anything else? And while all the beaches may be beautiful, only a few have phosphorescent water...
Kamakwie, Sierra Leone - So why does Sierra Leone rank so highly? Well, when you have savannah, mountains, beaches, and jungle, it's kind of hard to choose just one place. Kamakwie wins out because it's close to Outamba-Kilimi National Park, but it's really only a good place to sleep if you've got awesome friends who work for a local NGO. Try camping in the park instead.
Doucki, Guinea - it's more than just a great name. Doucki is a village perched on the edge of a cliff in the Fouta Djalon region of Guinea, the ancestral home of the Fula people. This would only be mildly interesting without the incomparable Hassan Ba, who leads some of the most fun trekking I've ever done in this part of the world. Gorges, waterfalls, and more animals hiding in the rocks than you could ever imagine. What more could you want?
Kedougou, Senegal - I have to admit, some of these are brilliant only because of the people I met there. I spent a week laid up in Kedougou after I hurt my foot. It's a laid-back, chill town: the perfect place to see Senegalese/Fula culture on the everyday level. But there's enough nature about (including the nearby national park) to keep you busy even if you don't have the Peace Corps connections.
Bijagos Archipelago, Guinea-Bissau - a unique culture hidden amongst the dangerous currents of the turquoise seas surrounding the islands. White powdery beaches and a Portugese influence makes this country unlike any other in West Africa.
Chinguetti, Mauritania - stuck right in the middle of the desert, and one of the holiest cities in all of Islam, Chinguetti is a great place to start your camel trek, be it two days, four, or fifty (if you're keen to take it all the way to Timbuktu). If nothing else, a trek into the desert will provide one of the most beautiful sleeping experiences you'll ever have, especially with a full moon.
Chôum to Nouadhibou Express - the ultimate travel experience. Sixteen hours on top of an iron ore hopper through the desert. It doesn't get much hardcore than that. If you're brave, you can hop off for bathroom breaks whenever the train stops, but make them quick, because this train don't wait!
So there you have it. It may be a bit cheap to do a "best of" list, but the well of ideas was pretty dry there for a while. I think the rains may have come, however, with my first full day in Tangier. I'll have a really good post again soon. I promise.
And my usual gut reaction is "Are you kidding me?" Ask a student of literature for her favorite book. Ask a film historian to name his favorite flick. Ask my friend Patrick for his favorite paranoid, evil personality from 1928 - 1957. Maybe you could help him out by asking him only to focus on Europe, but really, there are just too many from which to choose. Asking me to choose my favorite place in West Africa is about like asking me to choose my favorite digit. My first inclination, I think I'd have to go with right-hand thumb, but that doesn't mean I'd be fine losing any of the rest.
Instead of launching into this diatribe, however, I usually cock my head and ask, "Of which country?" The truth is, I've seen and done a lot in my two and a half years in West Africa. I can't really give a definitive answer, but I can give you my list of my top travel descriptions. Apologies for continuing to neglect Morocco, but hopefully this Cliff's notes version of my trip can help guide any future questions for whenever I return home. Thus, in chronological order, I give you Sterling's Personal Guide to West Africa.
Abomey, Benin - the old seat of the Dahomey Empire, Abomey is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, but its red-earth palaces, symbols of a kingdom built on slavery, is slowly crumbling back unto whence they. This is one of the best places, though, to look onto the sadistic side of the African slave trade and examine how this bloody, black institution set tribe against tribe to tear one another apart.
Boukoumbé, Benin - a hike deep into the hills reveals the land of the Betammaribé tribe, who resisted slavery by living independently as family units protected by their small, fortress-like houses. Spend a night with a family in a tata house surrounded by rolling green hills and towering baobob trees and you'll feel like you're in the Shire. Just try not to hit any old hobbit women with your slingshot (or blame it on a kid if you do).
Klouto, Togo - deep in the hills and jungle of southern Togo, Klouto is filled with coffee plantations that you can hike through while on the search for beautiful butterflies. If you don't have an inner lepidopterist, you can always check out the abandoned European castle hidden in the trees...
Green Turtle Lodge, Ghana - an ecolodge working on community development along one of the most beautiful stretches of beach in West Africa. A sure place to meet Peace Corps types and to get crunched by some seriously awesome waves.
Kumasi, Ghana - home of the Ashanti, one of the most well-known West African ethnies, famous for their colorful and highly-prized kente and adinkra cloth.
N'guigmi, Niger - not much there but pure white sand. Too bad the nearest ocean is thousands of kilometers away. Go and you'll feel like you're at the end of the earth, or at least the end of your travels. With genocide to the east, a batshit crazy dictator to the north, religo-ethnic conflict to the south, and general famine all around, you'll definitely start to rethink your privileged status as a developed country national.
Banfora to Sindou Peaks, Burkina Faso - I rented a motorbike and took it the 100km there and back all in one day, and what a day it was. The dirt piste is lined with trees the entire way, and hiking around the peaks is a bit like stepping into the scenery from Fraggle Rock. Those who remember that reference get bonus points for having a great childhood.
Dogon Country, Mali - take the road up from Ouaghiya to the Falaise de Bandiagara and get into some real hiking. This is one of the most unique cultural areas in all of Africa, but due to its location in rural West Africa has remained relatively untouched by mass tourism. And the stars...if only you knew.
Sunset Beers on the Niger - whether it's in Niamey, Mopti, Gao, or Gaya, a cold Flag on a hot desert night is pretty unbeatable with those beautiful African sunsets. And with fresh fish brought in that hour by colorful characters in even more colorful pirogues, you're sure of a good meal to go with your beer.
Festival du Desert, Mali - one of the greatest concerts I've ever been to, bar none. A celebration of Tuareg culture, and a great revenue resourse for a severely impoverished people, the Festival du Desert brings together some of the greatest acts in West African music alongside musicians from all over the world. But the focus is definitely the desert, and you won't ever forget that when you're freezing your ass off on your third night in the Saharan winter.
Yamoussoukro, Côté d'Ivoire - check out the previous post on this one from sometime in January. The city was built to glorify former president Houphouet-Boigny's ancestors, but from the looks of it, the only thing the city glorifies is how much money one man can dump into a swamp.
Monrovia, Liberia - maybe less of a tourist hotspot than a fascinating look into a community still trying to rebuild itself after nearly two decades of civil war. Let's examine the amenities: no electricity, no running water, unsafe tap water, and streets that most embassies have put off limits after 9 pm. But if you dare to brave them (carrying no more than $20 at any time) you can have a great night drinking with awesome people on the streets of this awesome town.
Tiwai Island, Sierra Leone - home to eleven different species of primate, including the rare Diana monkey, all on one easy-to-trek island in the middle of the Moa River. Go looking for rare pygmy hippos (good luck), walk through dense jungle, take a river swim (just watch out for the oyster shells), and finish it all up with a fresh-grilled fish caught that morning by your boat guide.
Freetown Beaches, Sierra Leone - by far the best beaches in all of West Africa, and there's something for everyone. Choose any color of powdery sand from pure white to yellow ochre, even sand that turns your feet black. Your food choices may be limited to lobster, oysters, barracuda, and mango, but who needs anything else? And while all the beaches may be beautiful, only a few have phosphorescent water...
Kamakwie, Sierra Leone - So why does Sierra Leone rank so highly? Well, when you have savannah, mountains, beaches, and jungle, it's kind of hard to choose just one place. Kamakwie wins out because it's close to Outamba-Kilimi National Park, but it's really only a good place to sleep if you've got awesome friends who work for a local NGO. Try camping in the park instead.
Doucki, Guinea - it's more than just a great name. Doucki is a village perched on the edge of a cliff in the Fouta Djalon region of Guinea, the ancestral home of the Fula people. This would only be mildly interesting without the incomparable Hassan Ba, who leads some of the most fun trekking I've ever done in this part of the world. Gorges, waterfalls, and more animals hiding in the rocks than you could ever imagine. What more could you want?
Kedougou, Senegal - I have to admit, some of these are brilliant only because of the people I met there. I spent a week laid up in Kedougou after I hurt my foot. It's a laid-back, chill town: the perfect place to see Senegalese/Fula culture on the everyday level. But there's enough nature about (including the nearby national park) to keep you busy even if you don't have the Peace Corps connections.
Bijagos Archipelago, Guinea-Bissau - a unique culture hidden amongst the dangerous currents of the turquoise seas surrounding the islands. White powdery beaches and a Portugese influence makes this country unlike any other in West Africa.
Chinguetti, Mauritania - stuck right in the middle of the desert, and one of the holiest cities in all of Islam, Chinguetti is a great place to start your camel trek, be it two days, four, or fifty (if you're keen to take it all the way to Timbuktu). If nothing else, a trek into the desert will provide one of the most beautiful sleeping experiences you'll ever have, especially with a full moon.
Chôum to Nouadhibou Express - the ultimate travel experience. Sixteen hours on top of an iron ore hopper through the desert. It doesn't get much hardcore than that. If you're brave, you can hop off for bathroom breaks whenever the train stops, but make them quick, because this train don't wait!
So there you have it. It may be a bit cheap to do a "best of" list, but the well of ideas was pretty dry there for a while. I think the rains may have come, however, with my first full day in Tangier. I'll have a really good post again soon. I promise.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Respect Your Elders
Writing about Rabat. What can I say? I spent nearly a week in Morocco's capital city, and I've seen just about all that it could offer someone who doesn't live there. But I spent most of my day preparing for the night, as the 9th Annual Mawazine Festival of World Music was on for my week there. F***ing fantastic.
This was one of those moments where luck and good timing led me to the right place. I'd heard of the Mawazine Festival as I passed cafés and restaurants with television usually tuned to football or National Geographic Abu Dhabi (they really watch a lot of National Geo here, I don't know why). But I had no idea who was playing, where the concert was, how much it cost. Then, walking the streets of Marrakesh, I saw an enormous billboard featuring a man in a fedora and black jacket, head bowed to the camera: Carlos Santana at Mawazine. Tickets on sale for 600 dirham (about $70). I froze. Immediately thoughts of "If only" and "Can I afford that?" began to sweep through my head. I knew some other Volunteers would be in Rabat for their mid-service medical appointments around that time, so I thought, "Why not join them and see how the spirit moves me."
As the week of the festival drew closer, I saw more and more coverage on the national channel: Julio Iglesias, Sting, Carlos Santana, BB KING?! BB King is 84 years old these days. I decided then and there that even if it meant dropping $70, I had to see him. It might be my last chance.
I met up with a Volunteer who'd been evacuated way back in the day from Madagascar, a friend of a friend kind of thing, for a beer. He was off to see Seun Kuti that night. It was a free show, I was welcome, why the hell not? I'd never heard of him, but boy, do I know him now. Seun Kuti's father is Fela Kuti, the Nigerian musician who pioneered Afrobeat, a mixture of African rhythms, highlife, jazz, and funk. The show rocked. It reminded me of everything I love about Africa. At one point Seun said something along the lines of "I want you to shout out as loud as you can, because in Africa, we don't talk small. We shout out with every part of our soul!" I'd never thought about it before, but he was right, and it's what I love about the continent. Africans tend to make everything big. Anyone who's ever been in a group of Africans know how loud and boisterous they can get, throwing around jokes and stories like no others. And as I look to some of my favorite artists: Howlin' Wolf, Etta James, Muddy Waters, I think that tendency to pour your soul out in one loud cry crossed the Atlantic and defined American music of all stripes.
Okay, so now I'm hooked. Free shows and some amazing new music on my first night in Rabat. Next up: Cheikh Tidiane Seck. I'd seen this guy at the Festival in the Desert in Timbuktu. Crazy to think that that was over five months ago, and here he is again in Morocco. He took me back to my Sahelian roots with his rockin' take on traditional griot music and some of those lovely, full-bodied Malian women, who probably shook it a little too much for a Moroccan audience. That's fine. Let's let the Malians shake things up a bit.
So two shows down, I start to look for who I want to see, who I can see for free. This can't be right. Elton John is playing for free to those who don't mind standing a football pitch away from the stage. I am THERE! Evidently, this show almost didn't happen, as some conservative imams in Morocco cast Elton John as a menace to good Islamic values. But the show went on as planned, rightfully, as the concert organizers noted, as it's a festival to bring people and cultures together for a proper, respectful cultural exchange. As I walked up to the jangling piano of Tiny Dancer, I knew I'd made the right decision to stay in Rabat for the duration of the festival. I have to say though, after the African bands, that I was a bit disappointed by Elton John as musician. The technicality isn't as high quality as those others. And the lyrics aren't all that great, in the end. I mean, are there any other lyrics to Bennie and the Jets other than "Buh Bennie and the Jetssssssssssssssssssss?" But damn. You do have to hand it to the man. He knows how to put on a spectacle. Eventhough he sings everything down an octave these days (I should never be able to sing along with Tiny Dancer in anything but a falsetto), you gotta hand it to him: the songs are catchy, and he knows how to catch your eye.
Elton John turned 63 this year. That's almost as old as my Dad, and I don't think I could see him putting on a show like that. Though strangely enough, I can imagine him in purple sunglasses and a coat and tails, the sleeves embroidered with a rainbow-colored shooting star. That weird? Didn't think so. BB King, however, will be 85 this year, and that just blows my mind. 84 years old and still touring? Not just touring, but touring internationally and taking on a gig in Morocco? I had to see it. I'd heard rumors he was playing from a wheelchair these days. I'd seen Maynard Ferguson, right at the end of his life, and while the old boy could still blow, he usually needed about ten minutes to rest from the minor heart attack suffered after each solo. It's just not the same with a guitarist. Old BB King took the stage and man, could he riff. And his band, a bunch of crusty old guys just like him, well, they didn't miss a beat either. In fact, I think they've all gotten better with age. Of course, they can ham it up with the best of them now. Going into the show thinking that these old guys probably don't have the pads or the chops to rock just lets them blow you even further out of the water. I only hope they come through Indiana while I'm at home, so I can get another chance to see them shine. Damn. I can't write about music and give you the visceral response of being there, but I was dancing the whole night and longing to see him up close.
Last night: Carlos Santana. I've been listening to Santana since 8th grade. Twelve freakin' years! Ya, remember Supernatural? The album that exploded with collaborators like Eric Clapton, Dave Matthews, Wyclef Jean, Lauren Hill, and who could forget Rob Thomas's work on Smooth, that song you couldn't escape for an entire summer. Santana, like Sir Elton, is 63 this year, but I'd like to say, this is one of the best shows I've ever seen. I would have dropped the 600 dirhams on the spot to have the chance to party up near the stage. But...I'm poor. As it was, I crammed in between a bunch of Moroccans who could appreciate the music, but only as a show, not as an experience. There was one other guy, very close by, who, like me, knew all the lyrics, and we were having a time trying to get the others moving. But wow, that cat has only gotten better as the years have gone by. Never have I felt music approach the level of frenetic ecstasy as I had that night.
The continuing theme with these three big acts were these guys who are up there and have been up there now for decades. With all the support I can give to Sir Elton and his band, they're all pretty old dudes who nevertheless have never slowed down. And while they may not have cut their hair since they started touring in the 70s, you gotta hand it to them: when you're that good, you don't have to. Watching BB King was like hanging out with the old guys at the mosque in Niger: they don't need to say much, because whatever comes out of their mouth will have you rolling in the aisles. And it's obvious they just love it. It's a great thing to see guys up there just having fun. Santana brought in some young guys, but when you have to play that hard for that long, you need stamina. I don't know how he does it, but I only hope that I have that kind of strength when I hit 63. These are old musicians who won't fade away, and with this much life, I don't think I'll have to worry about catching the next show.
This was one of those moments where luck and good timing led me to the right place. I'd heard of the Mawazine Festival as I passed cafés and restaurants with television usually tuned to football or National Geographic Abu Dhabi (they really watch a lot of National Geo here, I don't know why). But I had no idea who was playing, where the concert was, how much it cost. Then, walking the streets of Marrakesh, I saw an enormous billboard featuring a man in a fedora and black jacket, head bowed to the camera: Carlos Santana at Mawazine. Tickets on sale for 600 dirham (about $70). I froze. Immediately thoughts of "If only" and "Can I afford that?" began to sweep through my head. I knew some other Volunteers would be in Rabat for their mid-service medical appointments around that time, so I thought, "Why not join them and see how the spirit moves me."
As the week of the festival drew closer, I saw more and more coverage on the national channel: Julio Iglesias, Sting, Carlos Santana, BB KING?! BB King is 84 years old these days. I decided then and there that even if it meant dropping $70, I had to see him. It might be my last chance.
I met up with a Volunteer who'd been evacuated way back in the day from Madagascar, a friend of a friend kind of thing, for a beer. He was off to see Seun Kuti that night. It was a free show, I was welcome, why the hell not? I'd never heard of him, but boy, do I know him now. Seun Kuti's father is Fela Kuti, the Nigerian musician who pioneered Afrobeat, a mixture of African rhythms, highlife, jazz, and funk. The show rocked. It reminded me of everything I love about Africa. At one point Seun said something along the lines of "I want you to shout out as loud as you can, because in Africa, we don't talk small. We shout out with every part of our soul!" I'd never thought about it before, but he was right, and it's what I love about the continent. Africans tend to make everything big. Anyone who's ever been in a group of Africans know how loud and boisterous they can get, throwing around jokes and stories like no others. And as I look to some of my favorite artists: Howlin' Wolf, Etta James, Muddy Waters, I think that tendency to pour your soul out in one loud cry crossed the Atlantic and defined American music of all stripes.
Okay, so now I'm hooked. Free shows and some amazing new music on my first night in Rabat. Next up: Cheikh Tidiane Seck. I'd seen this guy at the Festival in the Desert in Timbuktu. Crazy to think that that was over five months ago, and here he is again in Morocco. He took me back to my Sahelian roots with his rockin' take on traditional griot music and some of those lovely, full-bodied Malian women, who probably shook it a little too much for a Moroccan audience. That's fine. Let's let the Malians shake things up a bit.
So two shows down, I start to look for who I want to see, who I can see for free. This can't be right. Elton John is playing for free to those who don't mind standing a football pitch away from the stage. I am THERE! Evidently, this show almost didn't happen, as some conservative imams in Morocco cast Elton John as a menace to good Islamic values. But the show went on as planned, rightfully, as the concert organizers noted, as it's a festival to bring people and cultures together for a proper, respectful cultural exchange. As I walked up to the jangling piano of Tiny Dancer, I knew I'd made the right decision to stay in Rabat for the duration of the festival. I have to say though, after the African bands, that I was a bit disappointed by Elton John as musician. The technicality isn't as high quality as those others. And the lyrics aren't all that great, in the end. I mean, are there any other lyrics to Bennie and the Jets other than "Buh Bennie and the Jetssssssssssssssssssss?" But damn. You do have to hand it to the man. He knows how to put on a spectacle. Eventhough he sings everything down an octave these days (I should never be able to sing along with Tiny Dancer in anything but a falsetto), you gotta hand it to him: the songs are catchy, and he knows how to catch your eye.
Elton John turned 63 this year. That's almost as old as my Dad, and I don't think I could see him putting on a show like that. Though strangely enough, I can imagine him in purple sunglasses and a coat and tails, the sleeves embroidered with a rainbow-colored shooting star. That weird? Didn't think so. BB King, however, will be 85 this year, and that just blows my mind. 84 years old and still touring? Not just touring, but touring internationally and taking on a gig in Morocco? I had to see it. I'd heard rumors he was playing from a wheelchair these days. I'd seen Maynard Ferguson, right at the end of his life, and while the old boy could still blow, he usually needed about ten minutes to rest from the minor heart attack suffered after each solo. It's just not the same with a guitarist. Old BB King took the stage and man, could he riff. And his band, a bunch of crusty old guys just like him, well, they didn't miss a beat either. In fact, I think they've all gotten better with age. Of course, they can ham it up with the best of them now. Going into the show thinking that these old guys probably don't have the pads or the chops to rock just lets them blow you even further out of the water. I only hope they come through Indiana while I'm at home, so I can get another chance to see them shine. Damn. I can't write about music and give you the visceral response of being there, but I was dancing the whole night and longing to see him up close.
Last night: Carlos Santana. I've been listening to Santana since 8th grade. Twelve freakin' years! Ya, remember Supernatural? The album that exploded with collaborators like Eric Clapton, Dave Matthews, Wyclef Jean, Lauren Hill, and who could forget Rob Thomas's work on Smooth, that song you couldn't escape for an entire summer. Santana, like Sir Elton, is 63 this year, but I'd like to say, this is one of the best shows I've ever seen. I would have dropped the 600 dirhams on the spot to have the chance to party up near the stage. But...I'm poor. As it was, I crammed in between a bunch of Moroccans who could appreciate the music, but only as a show, not as an experience. There was one other guy, very close by, who, like me, knew all the lyrics, and we were having a time trying to get the others moving. But wow, that cat has only gotten better as the years have gone by. Never have I felt music approach the level of frenetic ecstasy as I had that night.
The continuing theme with these three big acts were these guys who are up there and have been up there now for decades. With all the support I can give to Sir Elton and his band, they're all pretty old dudes who nevertheless have never slowed down. And while they may not have cut their hair since they started touring in the 70s, you gotta hand it to them: when you're that good, you don't have to. Watching BB King was like hanging out with the old guys at the mosque in Niger: they don't need to say much, because whatever comes out of their mouth will have you rolling in the aisles. And it's obvious they just love it. It's a great thing to see guys up there just having fun. Santana brought in some young guys, but when you have to play that hard for that long, you need stamina. I don't know how he does it, but I only hope that I have that kind of strength when I hit 63. These are old musicians who won't fade away, and with this much life, I don't think I'll have to worry about catching the next show.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
An Updated Festival and on to Ivory Coast
I've had some time on my hands in Ouagadougou (Burkina Faso), and I've spent most of it sleeping. I probably should be updating, telling stories of adventure in the desert, etc. But honestly, I've had to spend the last few days recuperating from all my adventures, and it's only now that I've gotten up the energy to write anything at all. You may think a Festival in the Desert is all fun and games, but it's seriously tiring. The artists played every night until about 4 in the morning. It'd be a stamina contest even without the freezing desert nights and days which felt as if you'd taken up residence in a brick oven. Unless you had a hotel room somewhere in the city (which I didn't), it was pretty difficult to get more than two or three hours sleep a night.
I'll take this as a side note: Timbuktu proved to me that I'm still not ready to return to America until they've officially outlawed winter. I kept trying to see my breath, swearing up and down in the sleep-deprived 3am jam sessions that it had to be below freezing. It wasn't. At the worst of my cold-addled dementia, I called my dad and said, "It's SO cold here!" "...We're getting six to eight inches of snow tonight." "Fine, you win. I'm never coming home."
I've gotten only jealousy from fellow Volunteers after telling them I just came back from the Festival. As Peace Corps Volunteers, we're treated the same as embassy workers, which means if they State Department puts out an alert or a warning, as in the case of Timbuktu and specifically the Festival, we're not allowed to go. However, thanks to the terrorists (jerks) I ended my service early and didn't have any restrictions. Hell, I could've even driven a moto up there (we're not allowed on motos in Peace Corps). So...sometimes every bastard terrorist provides a silver lining, which he then promptly kidnaps and holds for ransom (jerk).
The questions I've been getting? "Was it expensive?" So expensive...but so worth it. No more expensive than a festival in the U.S. or Europe, but such a unique experience. "Who was your favorite?" That's an impossible question to answer, if in part just because there was no schedule for who was playing when, and it was kind of hard to know who was who unless you had a real background in West African music. Which I don't. In fact, I would have to admit that I could never work for Rolling Stone. I don't pretend to know a lot about music. I get most of my music through word of mouth and Internet radio stations, so I can't really speak to melodies, harmonies, movements, modes, etc. I didn't even know who Tinariwin was before I went to this concert (I do now, and they're awesome!). But that's why you go to something like this right? If I weren't already in West Africa at the right time and within spitting distance of the right place, I probably wouldn't have gone, but things just worked out right. And it's an experience, am I right? Very few other people in the world can say they've been to a desert music festival and seen some of the greatest musicians of one of the most vibrant music scenes in all of Africa all in one place.
So who did I like? Who should you check out? Well the aforementioned Tinariwin was a treat. They're kind of the reason the whole festival actually exists. Their music was the voice of an entire people. Resistance music the likes of which the 60s couldn't have imagined. They were actually banned at one time by the Malian government, but their sound still traveled the country on bootleg cassettes. They played the first night of the concert, when it seemed like the entire city of Timbuktu had snuck in to the concert. That was the best part about that first night. The music, no matter how good it was, took a backseat to watching Tuareg and Songhaï, Fula and Bella rock out to an iconic national group. Vieux Farka Touré was particularly great in a tribute to his father, the late Ali Farka Touré, who died back in 2006. Amadou and Mariam, who began to hit it big on the hipster scene in America a few years ago, rocked out in the final jam session of the third night to wild applause. But perhaps my favorite, a Niger staple, was Mamar Kassey, a jazz/pop group whose music I'd always heard in Niger and never liked. It's because, like Tinariwin, all the cassettes I'd ever heard were on their fourth trip through the piracy chain and usually played full blast through crappy Chinese speakers that had survived God only knows what natural disaster to end up in the desert, filled with sand and shattered dreams (or something like that). I had to give props to Mamer Kassey, if for no other reason than because they're from Niger, but also because they rocked it out. It's hard to jam on a flute! It also helped a bit that they were the only band that played anything I'd ever heard before that night. Are you looking these people up? Seriously now, why are you even reading this if you aren't interested in seeing what I've seen? Go find some youtube videos! I'm not saying I'm fully converted to high-pitched, nasal singing, which is kind of standard in griot music, but I do have to say that the experience, like so much else in this world, is radically transformed by the performance, something unique in every time and place in which it takes place. It's the same difference between film and theatre, a vibrancy that is diminished when a living, breathing human being exudes a palpable presence from a few feet away. It's a feeling of being alive and totally within a moment, and technology has yet to take that desire for contact and immediacy away from us.
Well, to sum things up, I'm fully rested and recovered now, as I hope this post shows. It's a good thing too, since I'm on my way down to Côté d'Ivoire tonight to continue my journey across West Africa. I'll be in Bouaké, capital of the rebel New Forces, by tomorrow afternoon, and hopefully well on my way into the less civil war-prone south the day after. If you're reading this as I'm posting it, wish me luck, because I'm sure I'll need it, if nothing else than to deal with the graft. I've met a lot of people who are interested in this section of my trip: no Peace Corps to fall back on in a country not known for stability since a civil war a few years ago. I'll keep everyone posted and hope to have only good things to say in my next post.
I'll take this as a side note: Timbuktu proved to me that I'm still not ready to return to America until they've officially outlawed winter. I kept trying to see my breath, swearing up and down in the sleep-deprived 3am jam sessions that it had to be below freezing. It wasn't. At the worst of my cold-addled dementia, I called my dad and said, "It's SO cold here!" "...We're getting six to eight inches of snow tonight." "Fine, you win. I'm never coming home."
I've gotten only jealousy from fellow Volunteers after telling them I just came back from the Festival. As Peace Corps Volunteers, we're treated the same as embassy workers, which means if they State Department puts out an alert or a warning, as in the case of Timbuktu and specifically the Festival, we're not allowed to go. However, thanks to the terrorists (jerks) I ended my service early and didn't have any restrictions. Hell, I could've even driven a moto up there (we're not allowed on motos in Peace Corps). So...sometimes every bastard terrorist provides a silver lining, which he then promptly kidnaps and holds for ransom (jerk).
The questions I've been getting? "Was it expensive?" So expensive...but so worth it. No more expensive than a festival in the U.S. or Europe, but such a unique experience. "Who was your favorite?" That's an impossible question to answer, if in part just because there was no schedule for who was playing when, and it was kind of hard to know who was who unless you had a real background in West African music. Which I don't. In fact, I would have to admit that I could never work for Rolling Stone. I don't pretend to know a lot about music. I get most of my music through word of mouth and Internet radio stations, so I can't really speak to melodies, harmonies, movements, modes, etc. I didn't even know who Tinariwin was before I went to this concert (I do now, and they're awesome!). But that's why you go to something like this right? If I weren't already in West Africa at the right time and within spitting distance of the right place, I probably wouldn't have gone, but things just worked out right. And it's an experience, am I right? Very few other people in the world can say they've been to a desert music festival and seen some of the greatest musicians of one of the most vibrant music scenes in all of Africa all in one place.
So who did I like? Who should you check out? Well the aforementioned Tinariwin was a treat. They're kind of the reason the whole festival actually exists. Their music was the voice of an entire people. Resistance music the likes of which the 60s couldn't have imagined. They were actually banned at one time by the Malian government, but their sound still traveled the country on bootleg cassettes. They played the first night of the concert, when it seemed like the entire city of Timbuktu had snuck in to the concert. That was the best part about that first night. The music, no matter how good it was, took a backseat to watching Tuareg and Songhaï, Fula and Bella rock out to an iconic national group. Vieux Farka Touré was particularly great in a tribute to his father, the late Ali Farka Touré, who died back in 2006. Amadou and Mariam, who began to hit it big on the hipster scene in America a few years ago, rocked out in the final jam session of the third night to wild applause. But perhaps my favorite, a Niger staple, was Mamar Kassey, a jazz/pop group whose music I'd always heard in Niger and never liked. It's because, like Tinariwin, all the cassettes I'd ever heard were on their fourth trip through the piracy chain and usually played full blast through crappy Chinese speakers that had survived God only knows what natural disaster to end up in the desert, filled with sand and shattered dreams (or something like that). I had to give props to Mamer Kassey, if for no other reason than because they're from Niger, but also because they rocked it out. It's hard to jam on a flute! It also helped a bit that they were the only band that played anything I'd ever heard before that night. Are you looking these people up? Seriously now, why are you even reading this if you aren't interested in seeing what I've seen? Go find some youtube videos! I'm not saying I'm fully converted to high-pitched, nasal singing, which is kind of standard in griot music, but I do have to say that the experience, like so much else in this world, is radically transformed by the performance, something unique in every time and place in which it takes place. It's the same difference between film and theatre, a vibrancy that is diminished when a living, breathing human being exudes a palpable presence from a few feet away. It's a feeling of being alive and totally within a moment, and technology has yet to take that desire for contact and immediacy away from us.
Well, to sum things up, I'm fully rested and recovered now, as I hope this post shows. It's a good thing too, since I'm on my way down to Côté d'Ivoire tonight to continue my journey across West Africa. I'll be in Bouaké, capital of the rebel New Forces, by tomorrow afternoon, and hopefully well on my way into the less civil war-prone south the day after. If you're reading this as I'm posting it, wish me luck, because I'm sure I'll need it, if nothing else than to deal with the graft. I've met a lot of people who are interested in this section of my trip: no Peace Corps to fall back on in a country not known for stability since a civil war a few years ago. I'll keep everyone posted and hope to have only good things to say in my next post.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Bringing in the New Year at the Festival in the Desert
Totally exhausted, but, in this case, it's the best feeling in the world. I've averaged less than four hours of sleep for three days straight. I've suffered through freezing desert nights to see some of the best in West African music, and I loved every minute of it. Okay, that's an exaggeration, but it was an awesome, possibly once-in-a-lifetime experience. Everything just seemed to come together for an amazing start to the new year.
Well...let's back up a little bit. Actually, the new year didn't have such an auspicious start. I spent the first three days down with bacillary dysentary and felt like hell. Happy New Year. However, after two years in Niger, a little dysentary isn't the end of the world.
After I recovered, I took a trip up to Hombori, one of West Africa's premiere climbing destinations, and eventhough I don't climb, it did provide some great hiking opportunities. I didn't stay too long though as I didn't have a set ride up to Timbuktu, the Mysterious City, and the setting for the Festival in the Desert.
Hombori to Douentza. The dustiest bus ride I've ever taken, but within minutes of arriving in Douentza, I found a Land Cruiser filled with white people going up to the Festival. Four Australians, two Poles, a Dutch man, a British girl, two Malians, and me. None of us had reservations at any hotel or tickets, but things just worked out. The festival grounds were only a fifteen minute walk from our campement.
I wish I could describe this experience better. Let's put it this way: I was in Timbuktu, which I think we all feel must be the end of the earth after all the mythos of our childhood. I've got to say, as a tourist destination, Timbuktu seems to be relying on faded glory. It'd be a great archaeological site if people weren't still living there. Our campement was run by a Songhaï guy who was just freakin' stoked to learn that I spoke his language. Who ever said Peace Corps couldn't grease the wheels?
Like I said, the concert venue was a fifteen-minute hike from our campsite into the desert. I wish I could describe how amazing the whole experience was. One guy I talked to said it reminded him of an African Woodstock, which is pretty good considering the guy had actually attended the original. I wish I could say more about it at the moment, but I'm completely wrecked: exhaustion and three days of overstimulation. For right now, I'll just post the link. I'll try for something more later. Until then, enjoy this and look up some of the artists, though I'll tell you now, seeing them live was an unforgettable experience.
http://www.festival-au-desert.org/schedule-artistlist.html
Well...let's back up a little bit. Actually, the new year didn't have such an auspicious start. I spent the first three days down with bacillary dysentary and felt like hell. Happy New Year. However, after two years in Niger, a little dysentary isn't the end of the world.
After I recovered, I took a trip up to Hombori, one of West Africa's premiere climbing destinations, and eventhough I don't climb, it did provide some great hiking opportunities. I didn't stay too long though as I didn't have a set ride up to Timbuktu, the Mysterious City, and the setting for the Festival in the Desert.
Hombori to Douentza. The dustiest bus ride I've ever taken, but within minutes of arriving in Douentza, I found a Land Cruiser filled with white people going up to the Festival. Four Australians, two Poles, a Dutch man, a British girl, two Malians, and me. None of us had reservations at any hotel or tickets, but things just worked out. The festival grounds were only a fifteen minute walk from our campement.
I wish I could describe this experience better. Let's put it this way: I was in Timbuktu, which I think we all feel must be the end of the earth after all the mythos of our childhood. I've got to say, as a tourist destination, Timbuktu seems to be relying on faded glory. It'd be a great archaeological site if people weren't still living there. Our campement was run by a Songhaï guy who was just freakin' stoked to learn that I spoke his language. Who ever said Peace Corps couldn't grease the wheels?
Like I said, the concert venue was a fifteen-minute hike from our campsite into the desert. I wish I could describe how amazing the whole experience was. One guy I talked to said it reminded him of an African Woodstock, which is pretty good considering the guy had actually attended the original. I wish I could say more about it at the moment, but I'm completely wrecked: exhaustion and three days of overstimulation. For right now, I'll just post the link. I'll try for something more later. Until then, enjoy this and look up some of the artists, though I'll tell you now, seeing them live was an unforgettable experience.
http://www.festival-au-desert.org/schedule-artistlist.html
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Leaving Tanka Lokoto
I’ve been in
As anyone can see from my past blog entries, I took some vacation a couple months ago to go out east, almost all the way to
So there were plenty of reasons not to go back to village. In addition to the external threats, I also had some work of my own to do. I waited three weeks in
But being out of village, for lack of a better term, sucks. It’s difficult to emphasize this point enough, and I don’t expect anyone who hasn’t lived the life to understand what it feels like. I was forced to leave my small community without any chance to say goodbye or to close the work I had been doing. I felt like a refugee. Living in
The embassy wasn’t happy. I’d pushed and pushed to go back to my village, and after a month, I think I’d created such a headache that everyone was just tired of me. They gave me one week. It was more than I’d expected, but there were a few stipulations. I could tell no one I was leaving for my village or that I would be living there at all. That included Peace Corps staff, Volunteers, and even my own villagers. The only people that knew I was on this “secret mission” were the acting country director, the Peace Corps security officer, and the embassy’s Regional Security Officer. I had to check in via text twice a day, morning and evening, to confirm that I hadn’t been kidnapped. Finally, I couldn’t tell anyone in my village what day I would be leaving them forever.
And so I left for village November 3rd. This entry could be much longer than it actually will be. I’ll try to be concise and cut out all the personal, sentimental things and get right to the heart of the matter. My villagers were amazing for the week I was at home. Though my house was dirty and dilapidated, my hanger had nearly collapsed, my garden had died, and my cat ran away, I didn’t care. I was just so happy to be back.
But it was a stressful week. I spent most of my afternoons (when I usually napped during my service) packing up my house. My mornings and evenings I spent on specific missions to spend as much time as possible with everyone I knew and loved in village. At night, my favorite little kid, a four-year old named Razak (who I call attakurmizo, Zarma for a sprite or faerie) would come over, refuse to leave my side, and eventually fall asleep at my house. I’d carry him home and we’d repeat the same pattern the next day. I know I said I wouldn’t get sentimental, but he was a rock star the whole week.
I’m so glad the embassy allowed me to return for even just a week. I was afraid I wouldn’t have even an afternoon. The first night I was back in village, bandits killed a soldier and a merchant in Baleyara, the major market town about 22km from my village. It was the second such robbery in two months. The first had been a carjacking in which two merchants were robbed and murdered. It didn’t really worry me, but I’m sure it drove the embassy up the wall. I’m pretty sure my villagers would do everything they could to protect me and knowing that, I never doubted my safety in village for the one week I had.
I’ll be here in
By the time I had finished the small loop at my maigari’s house, there wasn’t a dry eye anywhere. The women covered themselves with their shawls and refused to make eye contact while I said goodbye. My best friends, both men and women, couldn’t bring themselves to walk out to the road with me. That was okay. I heard them crying; I understood. Even my village chief, a man who’s seen a lot and had to say a lot of goodbyes to loved ones in his 65 years, had that husky voice that usually means tears are close. It’s always hard to see an old man cry.
So much for not getting sentimental. Now I’m back in
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Solo Traveling and the Desert City
Back from vacation and ready to get back to my village. I've been backpacking around Niger for over two weeks now, seeing a lot of my fellow Volunteers that I haven't seen since I went back to my restricted village in terror alley. It was great to see so many of my friends and to catch up, as well as to have some time to myself to explore. When my service is over in December, I plan on doing a big backpack trip through West Africa, so this was the warm-up for that future event. It was a lot of rough roads and beautiful scenery, but luckily I always had the Peace Corps to fall back on for places to say and villages to visit. If you're truly interested, get your map out and follow my trip!
I started in the Konni/Tahoua region and a visit to my fellow stage-mates Justin and Kathleen. They live near Tahoua, just off the road to Keita. I'd been there before, but the dry season can't compare to the end of rainy season in terms of landscape. Few people know that the Sahara used to be covered in greenery; before the climate changes, the Sahara was forested and had large lakes with plenty of game for the people that lived there. You can see the remains of these vast lake beds near Tahoua. Justin and Kathleen's village is built on the downward slope of a hill that was obviously once the shores of one of these vast inland seas. It's apparent from the fossil remains embedded in the layered rock.
The Regional Representative of the Konni/Tahoua region, who knows the area probably better than any other Volunteer, had given me a tip when I stopped in Birni N'Konni: "Take the laterite road from Madaoua to Tahoua. It's the most beautiful part of the country." So, since I was up near Tahoua, I decided to take his advice. Let's put this in perspective though. I didn't know the schedule for market cars, I don't know the local language (Hausa), and I'm alone. If there's not potential for adventure there, I don't know where you'd find it. The road isn't paved; it's a laterite (red, rocky clay) road the entire way through some pretty magnificent scenery. The truck that I caught to Keita took us along a ridge line that overlooked two valleys filled with gallery acacia forests. Honest to God. Forests. It's something I haven't ever seen in this country.
The road, where it existed took me to Keita in the romantic ideal everyone has of Africa: teetering on the edge of hills where the road has been washed away and is partially collapsed, through three feet of water for half a kilometer, and bumping along at high speeds holding on to the roll bars of an open-backed truck. I'd already seen some amazing scenery by the time I hit Keita. I was assured by a someone waiting near the tasha that the car continuing on to Bouza and Madaoua was on its way. Two hours later, I'd fallen asleep in the middle of town and told that there were no cars going anywhere for the rest of the day. Evidently there was a market in a small bush town along the road to Madaoua and, as a result, there would be no other cars. Great. So I started hoofing it out of town. What choice did I have really? Here I was in a mid-sized Hausa city in the middle of nowhere without any other Volunteers posted nearby. I got picked up by a guy going to the small bush market, and he assured me that if I sat at the gendarme post he'd take me to I could get food and water and a car would eventually come by.
He dropped me in the middle of nowhere. I mean the absolute middle of nowhere. If you've ever been on the backroads in Indiana during the summer, you've inevitable pulled up to an intersection in the country with cornfields on all corners and a view to every horizon for all your trouble. Replace the corn with millet and you've got my hang-out spot for the rest of the afternoon. The gendarmes, when we pulled up, just looked at me like, "What on earth are you doing here?"
The nice thing about Niger for us Zarma speakers is that most of the military/gendarmerie will, at some point in their service, live in or around Niamey, which means they'll pick up at least a little bit of Zarma. It's required for the military to finish high school, which gives them an education far better than the average Nigerien. So if they don't by chance know Zarma, I can get by with my French. Anyway, I spent the afternoon with two gendarmes in the middle of nowhere just hanging out until a truck pulled up just in time to save me from incoming rains. The truck belonged to the local cell phone company, and they gave me a lift all the way back to Konni. I'd survived my early jaunt.
From Konni, I went back to Dosso and on to Kiota, a small city near Birni N'Gaoure. Kiota would be fairly unremarkable if it weren't for a famous religious leader who calls the city home. The Sheik of Kiota is one of the most famous Islamic leaders in West Africa. People come from from as far as Ghana and Senegal on the major holidays to receive his blessing. I was there for Id al Fitr, the end of Ramadan, and because I had the Peace Corps hook-up, I met the sheik and received his blessing for the new year. I definitely needed it for the next few days, when I traveled solo out to Diffa and N'guigmi, the desert cities of eastern Niger. It felt like going to the end of the Earth. I will continue this story in another blog post. Look for it in the next few days.
I started in the Konni/Tahoua region and a visit to my fellow stage-mates Justin and Kathleen. They live near Tahoua, just off the road to Keita. I'd been there before, but the dry season can't compare to the end of rainy season in terms of landscape. Few people know that the Sahara used to be covered in greenery; before the climate changes, the Sahara was forested and had large lakes with plenty of game for the people that lived there. You can see the remains of these vast lake beds near Tahoua. Justin and Kathleen's village is built on the downward slope of a hill that was obviously once the shores of one of these vast inland seas. It's apparent from the fossil remains embedded in the layered rock.
The Regional Representative of the Konni/Tahoua region, who knows the area probably better than any other Volunteer, had given me a tip when I stopped in Birni N'Konni: "Take the laterite road from Madaoua to Tahoua. It's the most beautiful part of the country." So, since I was up near Tahoua, I decided to take his advice. Let's put this in perspective though. I didn't know the schedule for market cars, I don't know the local language (Hausa), and I'm alone. If there's not potential for adventure there, I don't know where you'd find it. The road isn't paved; it's a laterite (red, rocky clay) road the entire way through some pretty magnificent scenery. The truck that I caught to Keita took us along a ridge line that overlooked two valleys filled with gallery acacia forests. Honest to God. Forests. It's something I haven't ever seen in this country.
The road, where it existed took me to Keita in the romantic ideal everyone has of Africa: teetering on the edge of hills where the road has been washed away and is partially collapsed, through three feet of water for half a kilometer, and bumping along at high speeds holding on to the roll bars of an open-backed truck. I'd already seen some amazing scenery by the time I hit Keita. I was assured by a someone waiting near the tasha that the car continuing on to Bouza and Madaoua was on its way. Two hours later, I'd fallen asleep in the middle of town and told that there were no cars going anywhere for the rest of the day. Evidently there was a market in a small bush town along the road to Madaoua and, as a result, there would be no other cars. Great. So I started hoofing it out of town. What choice did I have really? Here I was in a mid-sized Hausa city in the middle of nowhere without any other Volunteers posted nearby. I got picked up by a guy going to the small bush market, and he assured me that if I sat at the gendarme post he'd take me to I could get food and water and a car would eventually come by.
He dropped me in the middle of nowhere. I mean the absolute middle of nowhere. If you've ever been on the backroads in Indiana during the summer, you've inevitable pulled up to an intersection in the country with cornfields on all corners and a view to every horizon for all your trouble. Replace the corn with millet and you've got my hang-out spot for the rest of the afternoon. The gendarmes, when we pulled up, just looked at me like, "What on earth are you doing here?"
The nice thing about Niger for us Zarma speakers is that most of the military/gendarmerie will, at some point in their service, live in or around Niamey, which means they'll pick up at least a little bit of Zarma. It's required for the military to finish high school, which gives them an education far better than the average Nigerien. So if they don't by chance know Zarma, I can get by with my French. Anyway, I spent the afternoon with two gendarmes in the middle of nowhere just hanging out until a truck pulled up just in time to save me from incoming rains. The truck belonged to the local cell phone company, and they gave me a lift all the way back to Konni. I'd survived my early jaunt.
From Konni, I went back to Dosso and on to Kiota, a small city near Birni N'Gaoure. Kiota would be fairly unremarkable if it weren't for a famous religious leader who calls the city home. The Sheik of Kiota is one of the most famous Islamic leaders in West Africa. People come from from as far as Ghana and Senegal on the major holidays to receive his blessing. I was there for Id al Fitr, the end of Ramadan, and because I had the Peace Corps hook-up, I met the sheik and received his blessing for the new year. I definitely needed it for the next few days, when I traveled solo out to Diffa and N'guigmi, the desert cities of eastern Niger. It felt like going to the end of the Earth. I will continue this story in another blog post. Look for it in the next few days.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
A Fete for All
So I've decided to cheat a little bit and steal entries from my journal. I've come into Niamey and broken my exile because we had to write our reports for this trimester to send to Washington, and I was told I really had no option in the matter. So here I am, and here are a few of my entries.
30 September 2008 7:42 pm
Today marked Id al Fitr, the celebration ending Ramadan, and it was one of the best days I've had yet in country. First, let me say that this was the cleanest I have ever been or may ever be in village. I shaved, trimmed my hair, and scrubbed myself down for the festivities. I'm so glad I did too. I wore my outfit from swear-in, a long, dark green, embroidered African complet. It's the first time my villagers ever saw me in it. They were impressed, but I couldn't hold a candle next to some of the stuff they had. See pictures on facebook if you're interested. Everyone was decked out in his/her finest. Even the kids were scrubbed and in clean, non-tattered clothes. That was a shock to say the very least. It was like I was in a different place. A place that wasn't one of the world's poorest countries.
Okay, so the morning began with a walk to the edge of town. I thought we were going to the big mosque in the neighboring village, but as I looked back down the road, I knew that the mosque couldn't hold the hundreds that were walking to pray. We turned off the road at the edge of the village and onto a path through the bush. We walked a bit to a large section of field that had been cleared for the occasion. The sun was out and it was hot, but we rolled out the prayer mats and the alfa (a religious leader) of my neighborhood led the prayer. I did pray with my villagers, in the front row between a very old Fulan and a very small boy. I didn't know what I was doing, and it was nerve wracking, but I don't think my villagers minded that I followed their lead and faked my way through the service.
After the big prayer, we walked back to the village chief's compound and basically feasted. Many of the men were singing prayers the entire way back. There was so much food, and everyone in town was there. My neighbors Djame and Abu gave me two full pots of macaroni. I ate so much I had to spend most of the afternoon sleeping it off.
The best part of this holidy was how communal it all was. My friend from market, a cloth seller, actually thought to call me just to say "Kay Yesi" (Happy New Year). My counterpart Adamou's little girls came and visited me all by themselves. They're very cute and I couldn't believe they thought to come by. He called the next day from Ivory Coast, where he is doing migrant work as an animal trader. His daughters had on their matching outfits and their mother had braided their hair with bright, colorful beads. I didn't have any change (the typical small gift you give children who wish you a happy New Year), so I gave them some peanut M&Ms and took their picture. This was one of the most integrated and loved I've ever felt in my community. It was my best day so far in Niger. Only two more months until I get to do it all again for Tabaski!
30 September 2008 7:42 pm
Today marked Id al Fitr, the celebration ending Ramadan, and it was one of the best days I've had yet in country. First, let me say that this was the cleanest I have ever been or may ever be in village. I shaved, trimmed my hair, and scrubbed myself down for the festivities. I'm so glad I did too. I wore my outfit from swear-in, a long, dark green, embroidered African complet. It's the first time my villagers ever saw me in it. They were impressed, but I couldn't hold a candle next to some of the stuff they had. See pictures on facebook if you're interested. Everyone was decked out in his/her finest. Even the kids were scrubbed and in clean, non-tattered clothes. That was a shock to say the very least. It was like I was in a different place. A place that wasn't one of the world's poorest countries.
Okay, so the morning began with a walk to the edge of town. I thought we were going to the big mosque in the neighboring village, but as I looked back down the road, I knew that the mosque couldn't hold the hundreds that were walking to pray. We turned off the road at the edge of the village and onto a path through the bush. We walked a bit to a large section of field that had been cleared for the occasion. The sun was out and it was hot, but we rolled out the prayer mats and the alfa (a religious leader) of my neighborhood led the prayer. I did pray with my villagers, in the front row between a very old Fulan and a very small boy. I didn't know what I was doing, and it was nerve wracking, but I don't think my villagers minded that I followed their lead and faked my way through the service.
After the big prayer, we walked back to the village chief's compound and basically feasted. Many of the men were singing prayers the entire way back. There was so much food, and everyone in town was there. My neighbors Djame and Abu gave me two full pots of macaroni. I ate so much I had to spend most of the afternoon sleeping it off.
The best part of this holidy was how communal it all was. My friend from market, a cloth seller, actually thought to call me just to say "Kay Yesi" (Happy New Year). My counterpart Adamou's little girls came and visited me all by themselves. They're very cute and I couldn't believe they thought to come by. He called the next day from Ivory Coast, where he is doing migrant work as an animal trader. His daughters had on their matching outfits and their mother had braided their hair with bright, colorful beads. I didn't have any change (the typical small gift you give children who wish you a happy New Year), so I gave them some peanut M&Ms and took their picture. This was one of the most integrated and loved I've ever felt in my community. It was my best day so far in Niger. Only two more months until I get to do it all again for Tabaski!
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