Ready for the summer, but I know I’ll get restless soon as the charm and newness has worn and I realize I no longer feel the African sun.
On the plane ride across the pond I sat next to Mamadou Ndiaye, one of the few Senegalese men on our South African Airways flight. Mamadou, who is somewhere in his 70s, doesn’t speak English and the South African flight attendants were not particularly adept to parle france. I helped him via Wolof and found later that Mamadou is traveling to Greensboro, like he does every nine months or so to sell Senegalese goods at a market. He has some family in New York, some in North Carolina, and he spends about 3 months traveling around to visit and to restock the café touba, the spices, the African fabrics and emblems.
When I exit the plane I spot a large group of masked Asians – maybe Chinese. They ask in accented English which stop off the Airtran will take them to the car rental services. An airport employee responds. She comes from Sudan, but most recently Egypt. She fled Sudan with her parents some 23 years ago because of the janjaweed and spent most of her childhood in Cairo. Now, she lives in Queens and works at JFK. She says Sudanese food is like Ethiopian.
I finally reach the A train, headed to the L, to transfer to the 4,5,6, to catch the Metro North. As we near Manhattan, the subway cars become filled with Puerto Rican flag holding Boricuas of all ages. They are venturing to the PR day parade.
I finally reach Poughkeepsie and we settle to eat lunch at the River Station restaurant, just off the Hudson River. The sky is blue, the beer is flowin’, and the band – The Differents – led by a female percussionist, plays Sheryl Crow.
All in a day’s travel…I’m exhausted, but excited for summer and slightly buzzed off the Coronas.
16 June 2009
04 June 2009
Nu dem Ndar - 5.29 - 6.2
Last weekend we traveled to Saint Louis, more commonly known as Ndar to Wolof, Pulaar, and Serer. Saint Louis has a mainland continental side, an island, and an ocean side inlet. It is also just a stones throw away from Mauritania. Every year around this time Saint Louis hosts a West African Jazz Festival. Saint Louis also resembles New Orleans in architecture. The quant cobble stone streets and side street jazz clubs and pubs are very French Quarter-esque. There’s no Bourbon Street, but the city definitely has a Nawlins like flavor.
We heard some very good jazz and had an experience people-watchin’ as well. On one night a bongo player joined a Dakar based band for a few sets and played percussion on his cheeks and his noggin. On our last night at club Le Comptor, a kora player joined an African jazz band, playing with both African percussion instruments and standard American jazz instruments (bass, trap set, guitar). The kora has over 15 strings, and, in my opinion, way more intricate than most Western stringed instruments.
Most of the bars we visited were very cautious about which patrons were allowed to enter. In other words, Black Africans who didn’t look the part or have the cash were not welcomed. From my observations this played out in a few forms, two of which I will comment on.
As the night played on, I spotted many disgruntled young men who were denied entrance by the stern and muscular bouncer. Some of these men looked young, but I gathered they were denied more so because of their attire. They didn’t quite look the part to many of the white faced and fancy pants clad Europeans. One man was even challenged to show the contents of his wallet, though I paid no cover charge.
Inside the club, a similar stern and muscular bouncer approached Jazzy. He had two small cuts by each eye – the Wolof and Djola birthmark. He asked why she wasn’t drinking. The club was crowded. Many others were not holding a drink. I approached him and began to address him in Wolof. I explained to him that we were waiting for our beverages from our friend at the bar. We exchanged greetings and I told him we were visiting for the weekend. I further explained that we were American teachers and that Jazzy speaks some French and not much Wolof. He understood and kept moving through the crowds.
I don’t want to offer speculation as to why these particular bouncers challenged certain patrons. These instances may have occurred because of some club regulation or even band request that I don’t know about. It seems to come down, however, to perceptions of cleanliness, on some level.
On the Atlantic Ocean side of Saint Louis the neighborhood Guet Ndar vibrates throughout the day. Along this stretch of land, before the cemetery, there are no fancy hotels. The dusty and bumpy roads are filled with debris. Sheep and goats roam the streets. Laughing children run barefoot through the sand, the trash, and the animal pellets of poop. The house walls are lined with cement, not paint or wallpaper, and the latrines offer no supportive or cozy toilet seat. Private living space is minimal and conversations are loud and fast.
Many of us would consider this unclean, dirty, disease ridden, uninhabitable. Many of us wonder in awe at how the locals live, but then drive comfortably to our guarded homes and sit down to watch reality TV. I wonder in awe at the irony of the African jazz music that is too expensive for the people of the land from which it comes to enjoy freely. The bars were being rid of the debris that would disappoint and discomfort the trump card holding European/American patron.
We heard some very good jazz and had an experience people-watchin’ as well. On one night a bongo player joined a Dakar based band for a few sets and played percussion on his cheeks and his noggin. On our last night at club Le Comptor, a kora player joined an African jazz band, playing with both African percussion instruments and standard American jazz instruments (bass, trap set, guitar). The kora has over 15 strings, and, in my opinion, way more intricate than most Western stringed instruments.
Most of the bars we visited were very cautious about which patrons were allowed to enter. In other words, Black Africans who didn’t look the part or have the cash were not welcomed. From my observations this played out in a few forms, two of which I will comment on.
As the night played on, I spotted many disgruntled young men who were denied entrance by the stern and muscular bouncer. Some of these men looked young, but I gathered they were denied more so because of their attire. They didn’t quite look the part to many of the white faced and fancy pants clad Europeans. One man was even challenged to show the contents of his wallet, though I paid no cover charge.
Inside the club, a similar stern and muscular bouncer approached Jazzy. He had two small cuts by each eye – the Wolof and Djola birthmark. He asked why she wasn’t drinking. The club was crowded. Many others were not holding a drink. I approached him and began to address him in Wolof. I explained to him that we were waiting for our beverages from our friend at the bar. We exchanged greetings and I told him we were visiting for the weekend. I further explained that we were American teachers and that Jazzy speaks some French and not much Wolof. He understood and kept moving through the crowds.
I don’t want to offer speculation as to why these particular bouncers challenged certain patrons. These instances may have occurred because of some club regulation or even band request that I don’t know about. It seems to come down, however, to perceptions of cleanliness, on some level.
On the Atlantic Ocean side of Saint Louis the neighborhood Guet Ndar vibrates throughout the day. Along this stretch of land, before the cemetery, there are no fancy hotels. The dusty and bumpy roads are filled with debris. Sheep and goats roam the streets. Laughing children run barefoot through the sand, the trash, and the animal pellets of poop. The house walls are lined with cement, not paint or wallpaper, and the latrines offer no supportive or cozy toilet seat. Private living space is minimal and conversations are loud and fast.
Many of us would consider this unclean, dirty, disease ridden, uninhabitable. Many of us wonder in awe at how the locals live, but then drive comfortably to our guarded homes and sit down to watch reality TV. I wonder in awe at the irony of the African jazz music that is too expensive for the people of the land from which it comes to enjoy freely. The bars were being rid of the debris that would disappoint and discomfort the trump card holding European/American patron.
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