Spring 2004 Story Contest - First Place
Njum Waalo Blues
Gillian Davis
CIEE Senegal Spring 2004
The market on the outskirts of St. Louis buzzes with early morning activity. Thick strips of wood-fired mouton and closely-packed bodies weaving between street corners gives breath to the day’s rising heat. We pass heavy loaves of millet bread and bags of sweet bissap juice in search of longer-lasting utilitarian items. It’s curbside gift shopping, Senegalese-style.
Professor Seck gathers only the essentials: multi-colored wash buckets, a set of morning cups, a crate of packed oranges so bright they could only come from Moroccan trees. He has the needs of a tiny village in mind, and since he is our leader today, our marabout of sorts, we unquestioningly approve of the chosen gifts and pile into the crowded minibus.
We’re headed to the Fulani Village of Njum Waalo in the ancient Fouta Tooro region of Senegal. Prof. Ibrahima Seck’s research on enduring musical ties between Senegambia and the American south during the trans-Atlantic slave trade led him to this village years ago. He believes the stringed gourd instruments played historically in Njum Waalo gave rise to what Americans now term southern blues. Today, Prof. Seck will unveil to us, his students, the fusion of his formal research, passion for music, and a village of friends.
The plastic wash buckets and ceramic cups represent more than hut-warming gifts. Historically, European slave traders offered the “petit bonjour” and “grand bonjour” – also known as “coutumes” (customs) – to the kings of Fouta Tooro to ensure their successful passage along the Senegal River towards the city of Galam. Here they bartered salt and European-manufactured goods for gold and slaves. Although our transportation is a minivan rather than a slave ship, our quest is for music rather than slaves, and our acceptance into the village is assured, the gifts represent a cultural legacy for this voyage seeped in tradition.
The thin black window lines of the minivan create freeze frames of now-familiar scenes: men in flowing boubous standing behind tables of neatly-laid plastic objects; trash blowing through dusty streets and accumulating at curb edges; thin dogs scouring rare damp pools for remnants of discarded cooking oil or meat. The temperature rises steadily as the landscape transitions from desiccated city streets to rice fields to low-rolling brown earth dotted with acacias. Stretching our legs by the river, we enviously watch Senegalese children threading in and out of the thick brown water.
Upon arrival to Njum Waalo, we stumble from the van, an awkward white monstrosity among the earth-toned village. An arching acacia tree stands in the center of the Dia family compound, providing shade to an open-air village framed by square huts. The village elders rest on sheet-covered mattresses. The five Dia brothers urge us to sit down. Fulani men sit in overflowing boubous of striking turquoise and blue, speaking Pulaar and drinking from easily recognized red cans. I silently muse that the Coco-Cola company would gladly embrace this image as the headline of their latest advertising campaign. Add two cell phones charging on the central woven mat and a splash of blaring daytime television for a complex display of tradition meeting modernity.
Few experiences can match the majesty of an open-air bucket shower. After being stifled by innumerable layers of three-hour voyage dust, my pores are ready to integrate. Walking out of the compound towards the village mosque, I hear endless tiny shuffling feet, and a glance over my right shoulder reveals droves of tiny children eager to force their small hands into my palms. With three hands in my right, and a record five hands in my left, I loop back to the compound. Kneeling on a mat with a group of children, I exchange “Twinkle-twinkle” and “Row, row, row your boat” for songs in French and Pulaar. One rhythmic song in Pulaar inspires a tiny girl in uneven pant legs to jump into our tight circle and perform a dust-kicking dance of seemingly impossible grace for such tiny limbs. This simple exchange initiates a beautiful night of music.
Following a festive meal of full-bellied bowls filled with couscous, mutton, fresh fish, and sweet mangoes, the five Dia brothers gather on the central mats, two guitars and hoddus in hand (hoddu is the Pulaar name for a stringed gourd instrument; xalam is the Wolof name). The heat fades in the sweeping evening breeze, eyes pulse an unearthly glow in the concentrated lights of the central compound, and our bodies buzz with energy as the music begins.
Demma Dia’s fingers move smooth and confident across the gourd base and strings of his hoddu, while Yero Dia’s voice pierces the air. Their eyes communicate a musical roadmap. Villagers clap out a rhythm as Siley Dia and Demba Kaba pick accompanying notes on their guitars to complement the hoddus. The music weaves a mélange of Appalachian folk and southern gospel displaced in a dark village along the southern bank of the Senegal River. My body is still and focused. The eldest brothers, Baidi and Tchama Dia, break my calm through a raucous reception of gifts and wave of entertainment as the music unfolds quietly, a lush backdrop to their voices. The final song ends and the compound folds into a hush of settling bodies casting shadows beneath mosquito nets. I collapse in the central compound for a restful night’s sleep, my hand pressed against the black sky, clear stars falling through fingertips.
The morning stir begins before sunrise. I wake to mosquito nets rolling, pots of couscous and milk ringing, and flip-flops shuffling throughout the dusty compound. I rise and walk north, away from the morning noise, up a deep earth-red path amid fire finches, low brush, and a decaying cow carcass resting alone in an open plot. The sun edges over the slight curve of land, emerging first as a simple, distinct orange, slowly gaining a thick tongue of flame.
Feasting on knotty fresh bread from the village baker, I wonder why Dakar’s progression left behind the morning smell of heavy yeast in favor of manufactured, smooth loaves. We walk with full stomachs toward village marabouts who offer us seats on thick carpets. They express their appreciation for our visit, wish us good luck with our studies, and assure us that, if we ever need a good husband or wife, they have innumerable worthy matches. If we can stay longer in this wonderful village touched by music and pulsing with life, perhaps it’s a proposition worth considering.