From JULIE GREEN:
Arriving in the capital city of Guinea, Conakry West Africa in the afternoon of June 1, 2009, the Delta State University team of 9 members attended the first drumming class, which was a small introduction of what my experience would be for the next two weeks. Wednesday, June 3rd our first full day began and we immersed ourselves into the best drumming and dancing experience one could have – working with master drummers and professional dancing instructors as well as local drummers and dancers that were also well trained. One dance instructor, Yamouse, is internationally renowned.
Schedule Days:
Our daily schedule consisted of two classes. The African drumming class began at 9:00 am to 10:45 am and African dance began at 11:00 am to 12:15 pm. This schedule persisted for the first 8 days of my stay in Guinea and changed during the second week to accommodate Dr. Barton’s sociology and culture course.
The Drumming Experience:
Our first full day of classes began with a rhythm of music called the “Fare Woman Dance” instructed by the master drummer, Amara. Other drummers assisted Amara in the coming weeks (i.e. Sekou Sarno, etc). This is the first song played for the first dance at Susu weddings. Other rhythms consisted of “Yole” with two pieces (extra), and “Fula Fare”, which consisted of three types of dances with the dancers wearing deer skin hides. The drums called a power or spirit of unity and oneness to the community in which we lived. The djemba is the king of all drums and has a profound sound that in Olu’s words “drew me to it” -- he continue to explain that this drum pulled him with a strong force or power, and caused him to get out of his seat and patronize the lead drummer’s solo. This is an interesting phenomenon.
There was a great educational impact in our music experience. All instructors discussed the important of teaching each drummer the origin and the impact of every rhythm and tone (sounds and beats) of each individual drum within each song. Because I am an amateur drummer and dancer, this was great. I am fascinated with learning and understanding what I am engaged in. Therefore, having the historical background helped me immensely.
The Dancing Experience:
We were privileged to have two wonderful dance instructors, Yamouse and Salimatou Camara who taught us traditional African dance. Yamouse, the male international dance instructor, helped us to learn the “Kuku” dance and other dances by teaching us to listen for rhythm changes rather than only looking at his instructional illustration (or watching him change the movements). As my dance knowledge increased, I could recognize when the rhythms changed. It was fascinating. His dance style was more calm and slower. However, Salimatou Camara, the female dance instructor, taught us a different style of dance that was rigorous with sexual undertones. For example, the “Yole” is a ceremonial mask dance that normally is not taught to people outside of the tribe. It represents the female dance consisting of a second part as well, and it was performed on Independence Day in Sierra Leone. This dance consisted of more movements that rolled the hips and shoulders in a rapid motion. Her style of dance reminded me of some of the basic hip hop and pop dance styles we have here in America, perhaps the type of dances that are portrayed on the Black Entertainment Television (BET). Consequently, after the first week, the team started to see changes in their physical structure also. Our bodies were toning as well as tanning.
For every rhythm learned, we learned the dance that accompanied it. After the first week, the dance moves somewhat stayed the same. There was not much variation.
Other Events:
We attended several dumdumbas and an African theater production drama. They were wonderful experiences. There were times where we were pulled onto the stage or in the circle to show what we had learned in dance class and to express our afro-centric rhythms.
Dumdumba Events:
These events were located in the open streets with lots of people standing and sitting around in a circle – people of various ages and genders were in attendance. I attended three dumdumba events while in Guinea. The first dumdumba was upon our arrival -- Amara and his drum and dance team celebrated our arrival by performing in the airport parking lot. The second dumdumba experience was the last Friday of the month were Amara took us to support the event and to have fun, as well as hopes to gain support for our dumdumba the follow evening which started at a nearby parking lot and later we were asked to move from the streets. We continued the event at the school.
African Theatre Production and Drama:
This production was excellent! There were traditional tribal customs with painted faces and masks, and palm-leaf grass skirts worn by skilled drummers and dancers from all over Conakry. We were entertained for several hours, and the admission was very inexpensive compared to what it would have been in the United States for this type of quality production. It was extremely enjoyable.
Liberia – Drumming and Dancing:
I spent two weeks in Monrovia Liberia. I did not experience very much drumming and dancing. There were rare occasions where I would get a glimpse of someone playing a guitar and a coral (an ensemble), or I would hear drumming from my bedroom window, or see and hear American style drums at church. Once, I saw a drum store as I pass through downtown Monrovia. To my surprise, seeing drumming was very limited. However, I met the Ambassador of Culture of Liberia and she invited me to a drumming and dance production. Unfortunately, our schedules conflicted and I missed the production. During an interview, she informed me that she has worked extensively with some American universities and had the distinct honor to dance for and with President Bush during one of his visits to Liberia. She welcomed an opportunity to work with Delta State in the near future.
Lessons Learned:
Finally, there were some lessons learned during my Guinea experience. Listed below are some lessons I learned about African drumming and dance: (1) Drums are played not beaten; (2) African drumming and dancing are not only a profession for the people in Guinea, they are the very essence of the people’s being – interwoven into the very fibers of their lives; and (3) Drumming and dancing for them seems to be more than a lifestyle – the drum and dance are equivalent to “life” to the Susu people.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Friday, July 3, 2009
Leaving Conakry, Searching for a Frosty
On Wednesday, July 1, we left Conakry.
Our last days in Guinea seemed to go by quickly. There was a lot to do, and that makes time seem scarce. We had our last drumming and dancing classes on Monday and Tuesday. Ballacke reviewed two of the djembe rhythms and Sali revisited some of the dance steps. We had some of our favorite meals for the last time. And we went to the market to do some shopping. We took care of some business that was necessary to shut down our small school. And, we packed.
All of us got up early on Wednesday, our last day in Guinea. Our flight was scheduled for 9:40 pm, but we were told we would leave the house at 3:00 pm to head to the airport. Most of us by now know that such timeframes are very flexible, but we did want to have plenty of time to get everything checked in. The first order of business was to get the drums, balophones and other instruments we had purchased ready to ship. One of the drummers who has been hanging around the house took up responsibility for this, and showed up at 8:00 am with all kinds of packing materials. They have a system for preparing djembes for shipping, and we were told to bring our drums and some clothes down to the gazebo as soon as we were ready. They packed the drums in pairs, stuffing our clothes inside the drum and taping it to pad the sheepskin heads. They also taped shirts or towels over the holes at the bottom of the drums. Then they wrapped the drums, facing opposite directions, in large sacks and sewed them shut. We labeled the sacks with our names, and the drums were ready to go. They used a similar procedure to pack the two balophones that the music professors had purchased.
Once our instruments were ready, we had to pack our personal items. Since the drums would account for one of our bags, we had to condense our things into one other bag. For most of us, this meant getting rid of some of the things we had brought so we would have room for our souvenirs. I think many of the friends we had made knew this because they all showed up at the house on this day. I’m sure many came to say good-bye, but they also knew they may get some free gifts. And, they did. Most of us gave away a lot of the clothing we had brought – and Guineans love American clothing, particularly with logos and slogans on it. Many people had been giving things to new Guinean friends all along, and the music professors had brought many DSU t-shirts from various bands and choirs to give out. But on this day, people got shoes, bed sheets, t-shirts, pants, and all kinds of other things we didn’t want to carry home. I gave my mosquito net to Gaspar, an unemployed law school graduate who has traveled with us on our trips and spent a lot of time at the house, and gave most of my clothes to Mamadou, a young dancer who has washed our clothes for us and done other odd jobs around the house, and who is also about my size, and to Mohammad, Amara’s brother who has taken us many places around Conakry. I gave things to others who have helped us out, including a few items to Ballacke, who is the most popular of the instructors due to his infectious, fun personality. He has done many things to make our stay memorable, everything from teaching several drumming classes (he is a remarkable drummer), to getting down on his knees and scrubbing the floors in our house.
Once packed, we waited to leave. I had to go downtown to close our internet account, and waited to go with Amara and others. It was a relatively quick trip and we completed our business with remarkable ease. Then, it was time to go to the airport. We had several taxis and other cars, and brought all of our stuff downstairs and loaded them up. We drove in an extended caravan to the airport, and gathered at the back end of the parking lot along a wall, where we sat and waited. Pedestrians on the sidewalk above us stopped and peered through the fence at this strange group of foreigners and their luggage sitting along the wall. Some tried to sell us drinks and other items. A parade of vehicles, many with foreigners representing all kinds of aid organizations, went past us, dropping off or picking up passengers.
The Conakry airport is not very busy, only a few flights a day, and a jet flew over and turned to land, and we assumed this was the Air France flight from Paris. It turned out to be a Brussels Airlines jet, and it taxied in and parked at the terminal. Awhile later the Air France flight came in and parked near the other jet. We then got all of our stuff on carts and went towards the terminal. There was a large and boisterous crowd outside the terminal, but they had a rope around the entrance and only let ticketed passengers in. We shoved our way through the crowd and went inside. The terminal is a large, open room with a roof that stood above the side walls, leaving open space between the walls and the edge of the roof. We first stopped to weigh all of our items, then took them over to the Air France desk to check them in. Some of the drums were overweight, but we ended up having to pay only US$ 50 in fees. This was much less than most of us had feared.
As there were nine of us, all of this took quite awhile. Once everyone was checked in, it was about 8:00 pm. We went back out to the parking lot to say good-bye to our friends, most of whom had come to the airport with us and waited patiently while we checked in. It was dark already and had rained while we were inside, but we spent about 45 minutes of hugs, tears, last photos, exchanges of contact information, and very heartfelt promises to keep in touch. We have been through so much over the past month, good times, bad times, strange times, normal times, and all of us felt close to these Guinean friends who had been our guides on this experience. Although all of us were homesick and really ready to leave, it was, indeed, very sad to say good-bye.
It then was time to go back in, and after clearing immigration we found our flight was already boarding. After presenting our boarding pass at the gate, we went through a very complicated maze of security procedures before we finally could get on a small shuttle on the runway that took us to our plane. We boarded, and appreciated the air conditioning, something we have not known for the past month. We found our seats on the flight, which was full, and the plane left right on time. We already were being reintroduced to the time schedule typical of the U.S. and Europe.
Our flight to Paris went all night, and we arrived in Paris at 5:30 am local time. After the monotonous diet in Guinea, the airline food tasted great. We had all kinds of entertainment options as well – most of us had barely seen a TV for a month – but all of us were tired and everyone slept, at least for awhile, on this flight. Many of us also took naps on the floor at the Charles DeGaulle airport in Paris. The flight across the Atlantic lasted over nine hours, but it went by fairly quickly, or so it seemed. We knew there was a 7 hour drive from Atlanta to Cleveland ahead of us, and those who would be driving got some sleep on this flight. We touched down in Atlanta just before 2 pm local time, and went through immigration and customs easily. We got on the small train that shuttled us to the main terminal.
We found our luggage carousel, and as the bags were arriving David and I went to a Wendys in the nearby food court for a Frosty. David is the youngest member of our group, having just completed his freshman year. He had been dreaming of a Frosty for nearly the whole time we were in Conakry, and as we had no secrets in our cozy house, all of us had heard him talk many times of craving his first Frosty back in the U.S. I could not pass up the opportunity to share this with him. We greedily ate them as we collected our bags.
Olu was leaving us in Atlanta, heading back to Ohio, so we said our goodbyes and thanked him for all his hard working organizing and leading this expedition. We then caught the shuttle to the Days Inn, where we had left our vehicles. We loaded all of our luggage into a pick-up, an SUV and a car, and headed for the freeway. I was in the truck with Larry, who had been my roommate throughout this adventure, and we discovered one of the tires on his truck was flat. We sent the others on their way and went in search of a patch. In the end, we had to replace the tire, which took awhile, but after a stop for Chinese food (which was delicious), we were on the road. Larry had barely slept in the previous 36 hours, but managed to stay awake on this long drive back to Cleveland. The other two cars started out well ahead of us, but stopped for brief naps, so they got back home a little before us. We all got in after 1 am on Friday morning, after a long, long day of travel, encompassing 3 continents and over 8,000 miles.
A month is a long time in a foreign land, and we had highs and lows, fun times and stressful times. Over the weeks and months to come, we most certainly will continue to assess our experiences on this journey and adventure. Hopefully, some who went with us will continue to share their thoughts and reflections on this blog. For those following our trip, we thank you for your interest and hope this blog has helped to convey what we were seeing and learning in West Africa. Please check back to see what stories emerge as we continue to reflect on our experiences.
Our last days in Guinea seemed to go by quickly. There was a lot to do, and that makes time seem scarce. We had our last drumming and dancing classes on Monday and Tuesday. Ballacke reviewed two of the djembe rhythms and Sali revisited some of the dance steps. We had some of our favorite meals for the last time. And we went to the market to do some shopping. We took care of some business that was necessary to shut down our small school. And, we packed.
All of us got up early on Wednesday, our last day in Guinea. Our flight was scheduled for 9:40 pm, but we were told we would leave the house at 3:00 pm to head to the airport. Most of us by now know that such timeframes are very flexible, but we did want to have plenty of time to get everything checked in. The first order of business was to get the drums, balophones and other instruments we had purchased ready to ship. One of the drummers who has been hanging around the house took up responsibility for this, and showed up at 8:00 am with all kinds of packing materials. They have a system for preparing djembes for shipping, and we were told to bring our drums and some clothes down to the gazebo as soon as we were ready. They packed the drums in pairs, stuffing our clothes inside the drum and taping it to pad the sheepskin heads. They also taped shirts or towels over the holes at the bottom of the drums. Then they wrapped the drums, facing opposite directions, in large sacks and sewed them shut. We labeled the sacks with our names, and the drums were ready to go. They used a similar procedure to pack the two balophones that the music professors had purchased.
Once our instruments were ready, we had to pack our personal items. Since the drums would account for one of our bags, we had to condense our things into one other bag. For most of us, this meant getting rid of some of the things we had brought so we would have room for our souvenirs. I think many of the friends we had made knew this because they all showed up at the house on this day. I’m sure many came to say good-bye, but they also knew they may get some free gifts. And, they did. Most of us gave away a lot of the clothing we had brought – and Guineans love American clothing, particularly with logos and slogans on it. Many people had been giving things to new Guinean friends all along, and the music professors had brought many DSU t-shirts from various bands and choirs to give out. But on this day, people got shoes, bed sheets, t-shirts, pants, and all kinds of other things we didn’t want to carry home. I gave my mosquito net to Gaspar, an unemployed law school graduate who has traveled with us on our trips and spent a lot of time at the house, and gave most of my clothes to Mamadou, a young dancer who has washed our clothes for us and done other odd jobs around the house, and who is also about my size, and to Mohammad, Amara’s brother who has taken us many places around Conakry. I gave things to others who have helped us out, including a few items to Ballacke, who is the most popular of the instructors due to his infectious, fun personality. He has done many things to make our stay memorable, everything from teaching several drumming classes (he is a remarkable drummer), to getting down on his knees and scrubbing the floors in our house.
Once packed, we waited to leave. I had to go downtown to close our internet account, and waited to go with Amara and others. It was a relatively quick trip and we completed our business with remarkable ease. Then, it was time to go to the airport. We had several taxis and other cars, and brought all of our stuff downstairs and loaded them up. We drove in an extended caravan to the airport, and gathered at the back end of the parking lot along a wall, where we sat and waited. Pedestrians on the sidewalk above us stopped and peered through the fence at this strange group of foreigners and their luggage sitting along the wall. Some tried to sell us drinks and other items. A parade of vehicles, many with foreigners representing all kinds of aid organizations, went past us, dropping off or picking up passengers.
The Conakry airport is not very busy, only a few flights a day, and a jet flew over and turned to land, and we assumed this was the Air France flight from Paris. It turned out to be a Brussels Airlines jet, and it taxied in and parked at the terminal. Awhile later the Air France flight came in and parked near the other jet. We then got all of our stuff on carts and went towards the terminal. There was a large and boisterous crowd outside the terminal, but they had a rope around the entrance and only let ticketed passengers in. We shoved our way through the crowd and went inside. The terminal is a large, open room with a roof that stood above the side walls, leaving open space between the walls and the edge of the roof. We first stopped to weigh all of our items, then took them over to the Air France desk to check them in. Some of the drums were overweight, but we ended up having to pay only US$ 50 in fees. This was much less than most of us had feared.
As there were nine of us, all of this took quite awhile. Once everyone was checked in, it was about 8:00 pm. We went back out to the parking lot to say good-bye to our friends, most of whom had come to the airport with us and waited patiently while we checked in. It was dark already and had rained while we were inside, but we spent about 45 minutes of hugs, tears, last photos, exchanges of contact information, and very heartfelt promises to keep in touch. We have been through so much over the past month, good times, bad times, strange times, normal times, and all of us felt close to these Guinean friends who had been our guides on this experience. Although all of us were homesick and really ready to leave, it was, indeed, very sad to say good-bye.
It then was time to go back in, and after clearing immigration we found our flight was already boarding. After presenting our boarding pass at the gate, we went through a very complicated maze of security procedures before we finally could get on a small shuttle on the runway that took us to our plane. We boarded, and appreciated the air conditioning, something we have not known for the past month. We found our seats on the flight, which was full, and the plane left right on time. We already were being reintroduced to the time schedule typical of the U.S. and Europe.
Our flight to Paris went all night, and we arrived in Paris at 5:30 am local time. After the monotonous diet in Guinea, the airline food tasted great. We had all kinds of entertainment options as well – most of us had barely seen a TV for a month – but all of us were tired and everyone slept, at least for awhile, on this flight. Many of us also took naps on the floor at the Charles DeGaulle airport in Paris. The flight across the Atlantic lasted over nine hours, but it went by fairly quickly, or so it seemed. We knew there was a 7 hour drive from Atlanta to Cleveland ahead of us, and those who would be driving got some sleep on this flight. We touched down in Atlanta just before 2 pm local time, and went through immigration and customs easily. We got on the small train that shuttled us to the main terminal.
We found our luggage carousel, and as the bags were arriving David and I went to a Wendys in the nearby food court for a Frosty. David is the youngest member of our group, having just completed his freshman year. He had been dreaming of a Frosty for nearly the whole time we were in Conakry, and as we had no secrets in our cozy house, all of us had heard him talk many times of craving his first Frosty back in the U.S. I could not pass up the opportunity to share this with him. We greedily ate them as we collected our bags.
Olu was leaving us in Atlanta, heading back to Ohio, so we said our goodbyes and thanked him for all his hard working organizing and leading this expedition. We then caught the shuttle to the Days Inn, where we had left our vehicles. We loaded all of our luggage into a pick-up, an SUV and a car, and headed for the freeway. I was in the truck with Larry, who had been my roommate throughout this adventure, and we discovered one of the tires on his truck was flat. We sent the others on their way and went in search of a patch. In the end, we had to replace the tire, which took awhile, but after a stop for Chinese food (which was delicious), we were on the road. Larry had barely slept in the previous 36 hours, but managed to stay awake on this long drive back to Cleveland. The other two cars started out well ahead of us, but stopped for brief naps, so they got back home a little before us. We all got in after 1 am on Friday morning, after a long, long day of travel, encompassing 3 continents and over 8,000 miles.
A month is a long time in a foreign land, and we had highs and lows, fun times and stressful times. Over the weeks and months to come, we most certainly will continue to assess our experiences on this journey and adventure. Hopefully, some who went with us will continue to share their thoughts and reflections on this blog. For those following our trip, we thank you for your interest and hope this blog has helped to convey what we were seeing and learning in West Africa. Please check back to see what stories emerge as we continue to reflect on our experiences.
Conakry Monuments and Statues
Like any capital city, Conakry has its monuments and statues. But in a country that has only had 3 presidents and little in the way of military action, the statues generally do not commemorate heroism in battle nor politics. Instead, they represent an interesting array of themes and national obsessions. Soccer is well represented, as is music; one roundabout has a large statue in the middle of a cora player, a cora being a stringed instrument that is widely used in Guinean music. Below are an array of photos of some of Conakry's notable statues.
The "Liberte" statue, located in the middle of a busy avenue near downtown, looks like it should be called "Rocky Balboa meets Karl Marx." The statue portrays a worker breaking the shackles that chain his wrists. It pays homage to Guinea's socialist past, which led it to be the first African nation to break colonial ties with France in 1958.
In the center of a roundabout in the eastern part of the city is a monument to soccer, the national obsession. The statue shows a typical soccer player about to boot a ball.
In another roundabout near the soccer player is a statue of a large elephant, that I initially thought showed one of Guinea's wildlife species. On closer inspection, I noticed the elephant had a soccer ball at its foot, and learned that this is "Syli National," the symbol of the Guinean national soccer team. (In downtown Conakry, there is another beautiful statue that honors Guinean wildlife, showing two Gazelles on a large platform in the middle of one of the main avenues).
In a small roundabout near downtown along the south coast is a statue of Samori Toure, Guinea's national hero who fought French colonialism in the late 19th century.
In the center of an autopiste near Conakry's airport is this tribute to Guinea's women. In a sense it is a national symbol, as Guinea means "woman."
The "Liberte" statue, located in the middle of a busy avenue near downtown, looks like it should be called "Rocky Balboa meets Karl Marx." The statue portrays a worker breaking the shackles that chain his wrists. It pays homage to Guinea's socialist past, which led it to be the first African nation to break colonial ties with France in 1958. 
In the center of a roundabout in the eastern part of the city is a monument to soccer, the national obsession. The statue shows a typical soccer player about to boot a ball.
In another roundabout near the soccer player is a statue of a large elephant, that I initially thought showed one of Guinea's wildlife species. On closer inspection, I noticed the elephant had a soccer ball at its foot, and learned that this is "Syli National," the symbol of the Guinean national soccer team. (In downtown Conakry, there is another beautiful statue that honors Guinean wildlife, showing two Gazelles on a large platform in the middle of one of the main avenues).
In a small roundabout near downtown along the south coast is a statue of Samori Toure, Guinea's national hero who fought French colonialism in the late 19th century.
In the center of an autopiste near Conakry's airport is this tribute to Guinea's women. In a sense it is a national symbol, as Guinea means "woman."Photos from Our Dundunba
The drummers begin beating a rhythm near the center of Conteya, our neighborhood in Conakry, to initiate our dundunba. The new soccer stadium is under construction in the background. 
Several Americans join our dance instructor Sali to show off some of their steps, as djembe drummers in the foreground carry a rhythm.
The dundunba moved to the patio of our house, where a group of dancers take to the floor to honor a particularly adept perfomance by one of the solo dancers.Tuesday, June 30, 2009
The Madina Market
We are in our last days in Guinea, and in between our final drumming and dancing classes, many of us want to buy some gifts and souvenirs. And this means a visit to “the market,” one of the great pleasures and wonders of any trip to a developing country. Of course, much of Conakry is an open-air market to some extent – most of the major streets are lined with both indoor shops which open directly to the street or tents and blankets in which vendors sell almost anything one could want. But here in Conakry, there is one market that stands above all others, the one we have referred to as “the big one,” the Madina Market.
We have passed through the neighborhood surrounding this market before, so we knew of the incredible number of people that gather to trade here. Some of us were a little nervous about heading into such a large and seemingly chaotic crowd. Nevertheless, we headed out on Monday morning with a couple of our Guinean guides to see what we could find.
We drove in a taxi to the neighborhood near the market. To get to the market, we had to walk across a bridge that went over a set of railroad tracks and a busy autopiste. The bridge is lined with vendors on both sides and so many pedestrians that it is very difficult for vehicles to get across. They honk their horns almost constantly to clear a path. From the top of the bridge, you can see additional stalls along the railroad tracks, and you can also see the nearby main soccer stadium (the one they currently use, not the new one they are building near our house), and in the distance the four spires of the Grand Mosque. Looking towards the market, a large building surrounded on all sides by numerous stalls, you can see another mosque, with two very tall spires.
Some of us stopped as we crossed to look at bootlegged DVDs and other items. We then descended the other side and entered the market. It is a mass of humanity, many of whom want you to buy whatever item they are selling. And they could be selling almost anything, from underwear to motorcycles. People shouted “fote” and “boss man” to get our attention and to attract us into their stalls. Others wandered around carrying their goods, and poked us and pushed items into our faces.
The Madina Market is not really oriented towards tourists. This is where many residents come to buy the things they need on a daily basis, and also where other retailers come to by the things they sell in their stores. Consequently, we didn’t see too much that we needed to buy, especially given that we will be leaving in two days. But we wandered around for a good two hours, nevertheless.
There were several of us together, which meant if one person wanted to stop to buy something, a process that takes awhile given the need to look for the best item and to negotiate a price, the rest of us were left standing around. In typical fashion, the Guineans showed great hospitality by providing us with chairs or benches to sit down in the shade while we waited. People here are very attuned to others and seem to know your needs without you even asking. Some also asked us what we were looking for and offered to go and find the items for us.
We eventually tired of all the people, and some ran out of money (the best way to dissuade the many vendors – telling them “I’m broke” usually, though not always, sends them off looking for another buyer), so we bought some soft drinks from a young man carrying a tub of Cokes, Fantas and other beverages, then we walked along the highway back to the bridge and across to find the taxi that was waiting for us. While this was a very interesting cultural experience, I think most in our group found it cumbersome to have to negotiate so much just to do some shopping. Having to weave through so many people, especially in Guinea’s relentless heat; having to say “no” so many times to unsolicited sellers; and having to negotiate a price on very purchase are all tiring. We are happy for the relative simplicity of shopping at Krogers or WalMart, where strangely in many ways our choices are much more limited and prescribed. I think in a country like Guinea with so many poor people who don’t have a lot to buy, having to negotiate all of this at the times they do shop is not such a great burden, but in a high consumption country like the United States, where shopping is a recreational activity, the Madina Market system would not function very well.
We have passed through the neighborhood surrounding this market before, so we knew of the incredible number of people that gather to trade here. Some of us were a little nervous about heading into such a large and seemingly chaotic crowd. Nevertheless, we headed out on Monday morning with a couple of our Guinean guides to see what we could find.
We drove in a taxi to the neighborhood near the market. To get to the market, we had to walk across a bridge that went over a set of railroad tracks and a busy autopiste. The bridge is lined with vendors on both sides and so many pedestrians that it is very difficult for vehicles to get across. They honk their horns almost constantly to clear a path. From the top of the bridge, you can see additional stalls along the railroad tracks, and you can also see the nearby main soccer stadium (the one they currently use, not the new one they are building near our house), and in the distance the four spires of the Grand Mosque. Looking towards the market, a large building surrounded on all sides by numerous stalls, you can see another mosque, with two very tall spires.
Some of us stopped as we crossed to look at bootlegged DVDs and other items. We then descended the other side and entered the market. It is a mass of humanity, many of whom want you to buy whatever item they are selling. And they could be selling almost anything, from underwear to motorcycles. People shouted “fote” and “boss man” to get our attention and to attract us into their stalls. Others wandered around carrying their goods, and poked us and pushed items into our faces.
The Madina Market is not really oriented towards tourists. This is where many residents come to buy the things they need on a daily basis, and also where other retailers come to by the things they sell in their stores. Consequently, we didn’t see too much that we needed to buy, especially given that we will be leaving in two days. But we wandered around for a good two hours, nevertheless.
There were several of us together, which meant if one person wanted to stop to buy something, a process that takes awhile given the need to look for the best item and to negotiate a price, the rest of us were left standing around. In typical fashion, the Guineans showed great hospitality by providing us with chairs or benches to sit down in the shade while we waited. People here are very attuned to others and seem to know your needs without you even asking. Some also asked us what we were looking for and offered to go and find the items for us.
We eventually tired of all the people, and some ran out of money (the best way to dissuade the many vendors – telling them “I’m broke” usually, though not always, sends them off looking for another buyer), so we bought some soft drinks from a young man carrying a tub of Cokes, Fantas and other beverages, then we walked along the highway back to the bridge and across to find the taxi that was waiting for us. While this was a very interesting cultural experience, I think most in our group found it cumbersome to have to negotiate so much just to do some shopping. Having to weave through so many people, especially in Guinea’s relentless heat; having to say “no” so many times to unsolicited sellers; and having to negotiate a price on very purchase are all tiring. We are happy for the relative simplicity of shopping at Krogers or WalMart, where strangely in many ways our choices are much more limited and prescribed. I think in a country like Guinea with so many poor people who don’t have a lot to buy, having to negotiate all of this at the times they do shop is not such a great burden, but in a high consumption country like the United States, where shopping is a recreational activity, the Madina Market system would not function very well.
Waiting... Waiting... Waiting...
Nobel laureate Gabriel Garcia Marquez has made a career weaving stories about the magic in everyday life in the villages along Colombia’s Caribbean coast. In his story “No One Writes to the Colonel,” he recounts the tale of a retired military official who spends over twenty years waiting for his pension check to arrive. Throughout the time, the colonel remains convinced that the check will come in the next day’s mail. It is a story about the indomitable human spirit, about resilience and hope in the face of inefficient, corrupt and crumbling social institutions. It is also a story about the tedium of waiting.
We have become intimately familiar with this aspect of life in a culture where time is measured in days and seasons rather than in minutes and seconds. In a previous post on this blog, Wally has dubbed this “wongai time,” wongai being the Suissui word for “let’s go.” Whenever we are trying to get organized to go somewhere, there is a long period of “hurry up and wait,” of “wongai! wongai!” and then standing around waiting for an hour or two before we finally get going. And in the last few days we have become familiar with an aspect of wongai time that is closer to that faced by Garcia Marquez’s colonel.
Last week a couple of our group’s leaders had a chance meeting with the vice president of Guinea in a restaurant. They told him about our drumming course, and he was appreciative that our group had chosen Guinea and offered to help in any way he could. Our leaders decided it would be good for our group to meet the vice president. And the waiting began.
Now, of course the vice president of a country is a very busy man. While I know nothing of his daily schedule, I can imagine it is filled with meetings with diplomats, other politicians, leaders from cities and towns all over the country, business leaders and the like. And, like politicians everywhere, I am sure he also meets with his constituents and with private groups such as ours on occasion, in recognition of the important things ordinary people are doing in the country and also as a photo opportunity (although the value of a photo opportunity in a country with little press is debatable). But his time is valuable and getting a piece of it is not easy. Thus, we have been told for the past several days that we are waiting for a telephone call that will announce our visit with this important official.
On Friday we even went over to the military barracks where his residence is located to meet with him, but after waiting (in a comfortable room with air conditioning and a very emotional West African soap opera on the TV), we finally learned he would not be available and left. Since then we have been waiting for the call. Will we ever meet the vice president? Perhaps today…
We have become intimately familiar with this aspect of life in a culture where time is measured in days and seasons rather than in minutes and seconds. In a previous post on this blog, Wally has dubbed this “wongai time,” wongai being the Suissui word for “let’s go.” Whenever we are trying to get organized to go somewhere, there is a long period of “hurry up and wait,” of “wongai! wongai!” and then standing around waiting for an hour or two before we finally get going. And in the last few days we have become familiar with an aspect of wongai time that is closer to that faced by Garcia Marquez’s colonel.
Last week a couple of our group’s leaders had a chance meeting with the vice president of Guinea in a restaurant. They told him about our drumming course, and he was appreciative that our group had chosen Guinea and offered to help in any way he could. Our leaders decided it would be good for our group to meet the vice president. And the waiting began.
Now, of course the vice president of a country is a very busy man. While I know nothing of his daily schedule, I can imagine it is filled with meetings with diplomats, other politicians, leaders from cities and towns all over the country, business leaders and the like. And, like politicians everywhere, I am sure he also meets with his constituents and with private groups such as ours on occasion, in recognition of the important things ordinary people are doing in the country and also as a photo opportunity (although the value of a photo opportunity in a country with little press is debatable). But his time is valuable and getting a piece of it is not easy. Thus, we have been told for the past several days that we are waiting for a telephone call that will announce our visit with this important official.
On Friday we even went over to the military barracks where his residence is located to meet with him, but after waiting (in a comfortable room with air conditioning and a very emotional West African soap opera on the TV), we finally learned he would not be available and left. Since then we have been waiting for the call. Will we ever meet the vice president? Perhaps today…
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Finally, OUR (migrating) Dundunba!
Ever since we first heard of the trip to Guinea, one of the selling points has been having our own dundunba at the end of the trip. Well, the appointed day finally arrived! Our dundunba was scheduled for Saturday afternoon. The actual location, like the masks Wally discussed in a previous post, seemed to be a secret – it changed periodically during the week, and even during the party itself. We started at our home. About 2 pm we were told the scheduled time was 4 pm, so we all began preparing, donning our African gear, and at 4 we were ready to dance. But no one really started arriving until about 6 pm – something we are pretty accustomed to by now (and none of us really expected anyone at 4). Once people started arriving, things picked up quickly, though. A drumming corps set up along the side wall of the patio and began a rhythm, and dancers got up and did some traditional steps. People were getting into it and more people were arriving, many of whom we recognized from previous dundunbas we have attended and from Sekou’s ballet company.
Just when it seemed like things were going, the band picked up their drums and headed towards the gate. One of the members, djembe slung over his shoulder, said to me “Let’s go to the dundunba.” I thought “isn’t that where we are?” But apparently the word had come down from wherever the mysterious place is that words come down from here in this magical land that the dundunba was moving over to the center of Conteya, our neighborhood. So we followed along, walking in a long line down the street to the corner where we often catch taxis, then along the road that heads towards the ocean for a half block to a small paved pad on the side of the road. Plastic chairs were set up in a circle, and the drummers set up in the front. Again, they began beating a rhythm.
The Americans took seats at the back of the circle. Several of us looked warily around to see who was going to select the dancers, as we wanted to avoid his/her eyes. Many in our group don’t mind getting out and dancing but are starting to feel as though the Americans are “on display” and people laugh at us when we dance. Personally, I don’t believe that is true (although I am one who has steadfastly avoided dancing in these affairs) – I think people want us to dance because to them, dancing is the joy of life and they want everyone to share in it. They do laugh when Americans dance, and often our steps are not as intricate as theirs and perhaps do not display the virtuosity most dancers at dundunbas have, but I don’t think the audience is laughing at Americans who dance, I believe they are filled with joy and happy to see Americans participating in their culture, even if it is in an unrefined way.
Once again, the beat got going and the dancers were taking turns showing their stuff. A crowed gathered along the side of the road to watch. Our dance instructor Sali, decked out in an African dress and scarf, took some of the Americans out and they performed some of the sequenced steps she had taught during our dance class. The crowd loved this. One-by-one the Americans dropped out and went back to their seats, as did Sali, but Gene and David, the two members of our group who have been most dedicated to the dance classes, stayed out there and continued the steps for awhile. Finally, the leader came out and swept them off, to the crowd’s approval, and others went and did their individual dances.
Yet again, though, just as we were getting started… Suddenly, a pick-up pulled up and a man got out. The rhythm quickly stopped. A large crowd gathered around the drums, and in the style we have become accustomed to watching from the sidelines, about 40 or 50 people heatedly discussed matters, while we wondered what was happening. Then Olu came over and told us we were moving back to the house. Apparently the local officials did not approve of this spontaneous party, and shut it down.
Again, we moved to the house in a long line. Some tired of this moving around and left, but most people went back to the house, and once again, the drummers took up the beat. Dancers jumped up, kicked up their feet and sat down, and people began having a good time once again. Seku and Ballake took up the lead spots in the combo for awhile, then other drummers came in and soloed. People sat around the circle in plastic chairs, while others gathered in the gazebo opposite the drummers. The leader went around with a handkerchief selecting dancers. Some of the Americans took turns with dance solos.
I was taking pictures and went up to the balcony off of our living room, on the second floor overlooking the patio. Gene was on the balcony taking photos as well. We saw rain clouds forming off to the north. Then, the wind picked up and the palm tree across the street began blowing. Finally, the rains arrived. The dancers and drummers continued until the rain got harder, then they moved into the covered patio in front of the house where the staff here stays. After a few more dances, everyone gave up and called it a night.
Probably not what we had envisioned for our big party, but many of the friends we have made came by and performed, and the dances and outfits made this cultural experience fun to watch, and for some, fun to participate in. The drummers here feel they belong to a large brotherhood, and some have told us they believe we are entering that group. For at least one evening, we could feel like we were a part of the talented corps of Guinean djembe players.
Just when it seemed like things were going, the band picked up their drums and headed towards the gate. One of the members, djembe slung over his shoulder, said to me “Let’s go to the dundunba.” I thought “isn’t that where we are?” But apparently the word had come down from wherever the mysterious place is that words come down from here in this magical land that the dundunba was moving over to the center of Conteya, our neighborhood. So we followed along, walking in a long line down the street to the corner where we often catch taxis, then along the road that heads towards the ocean for a half block to a small paved pad on the side of the road. Plastic chairs were set up in a circle, and the drummers set up in the front. Again, they began beating a rhythm.
The Americans took seats at the back of the circle. Several of us looked warily around to see who was going to select the dancers, as we wanted to avoid his/her eyes. Many in our group don’t mind getting out and dancing but are starting to feel as though the Americans are “on display” and people laugh at us when we dance. Personally, I don’t believe that is true (although I am one who has steadfastly avoided dancing in these affairs) – I think people want us to dance because to them, dancing is the joy of life and they want everyone to share in it. They do laugh when Americans dance, and often our steps are not as intricate as theirs and perhaps do not display the virtuosity most dancers at dundunbas have, but I don’t think the audience is laughing at Americans who dance, I believe they are filled with joy and happy to see Americans participating in their culture, even if it is in an unrefined way.
Once again, the beat got going and the dancers were taking turns showing their stuff. A crowed gathered along the side of the road to watch. Our dance instructor Sali, decked out in an African dress and scarf, took some of the Americans out and they performed some of the sequenced steps she had taught during our dance class. The crowd loved this. One-by-one the Americans dropped out and went back to their seats, as did Sali, but Gene and David, the two members of our group who have been most dedicated to the dance classes, stayed out there and continued the steps for awhile. Finally, the leader came out and swept them off, to the crowd’s approval, and others went and did their individual dances.
Yet again, though, just as we were getting started… Suddenly, a pick-up pulled up and a man got out. The rhythm quickly stopped. A large crowd gathered around the drums, and in the style we have become accustomed to watching from the sidelines, about 40 or 50 people heatedly discussed matters, while we wondered what was happening. Then Olu came over and told us we were moving back to the house. Apparently the local officials did not approve of this spontaneous party, and shut it down.
Again, we moved to the house in a long line. Some tired of this moving around and left, but most people went back to the house, and once again, the drummers took up the beat. Dancers jumped up, kicked up their feet and sat down, and people began having a good time once again. Seku and Ballake took up the lead spots in the combo for awhile, then other drummers came in and soloed. People sat around the circle in plastic chairs, while others gathered in the gazebo opposite the drummers. The leader went around with a handkerchief selecting dancers. Some of the Americans took turns with dance solos.
I was taking pictures and went up to the balcony off of our living room, on the second floor overlooking the patio. Gene was on the balcony taking photos as well. We saw rain clouds forming off to the north. Then, the wind picked up and the palm tree across the street began blowing. Finally, the rains arrived. The dancers and drummers continued until the rain got harder, then they moved into the covered patio in front of the house where the staff here stays. After a few more dances, everyone gave up and called it a night.
Probably not what we had envisioned for our big party, but many of the friends we have made came by and performed, and the dances and outfits made this cultural experience fun to watch, and for some, fun to participate in. The drummers here feel they belong to a large brotherhood, and some have told us they believe we are entering that group. For at least one evening, we could feel like we were a part of the talented corps of Guinean djembe players.
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