Bang Your Head
February 1, 2006
Man have I been busy. It’s hard to find time to write these days. I have all these ideas and thoughts swirling around in my head, but there are not enough hours in the day to put them in writing. So now the question is; where do I begin?
I have begun teaching music. We are learning how to play the recorder. I have introduced students to music theory and have tried to stir their interest in rhythm instruments. During a recent lesson we worked on separating noise from music. We banged on tables, chairs, calabashes, and each other to determine when the music stopped and the noise began. Thus the revelation that the noise begins at the moment the music ends.
Speaking of music, we had a concert here last weekend. The mine hired a fellow named Habib Koité to play for their annual employee party. They set him up on the basketball court at the Malian school near the mine village. The court borders the soccer field and next to the parking lot is a bar. The perfect set up. The sound wasn’t that great but the music was awesome. Habib plays the guitar. His is not traditional Malian music, but incorporates a lot of the elements within it. He had a talking drummer that was fantastic.
The weird thing was that nobody danced. They had a big area set up for dancing, but very few folks actually got up and danced. There were tons of Malians in attendance and very few ex-pats, yet no one danced. Finally Carrie turned to me and asked if she could go dance. I considered that for a moment and then I had a very strange thought; of course you can, you’re an ex-pat and ex-pats can do what they please. Talk about white privilege.
It is as if each person here has a role. There are jobs and expectations. I have experienced this before, but it never quite dawned on me the way it did on Saturday night. When we got a flat tire in Sadiola I wanted to help fix it. I was allowed to help, but only because I pushed. After all, physical labor falls within the realm of the black man, but the white guy can do whatever he wants (not spoken, but felt). It doesn’t work the other way around.
This became clear to me at the concert. I was free to wander wherever I wanted. I carried Zachary up to the stage, walked around the side, stood close to the ballofon player, walked around to the back to watch the drummer, and chatted with the security guy. There are places in America that I would not be allowed in. Furthermore I wouldn’t even try to enter some of those places for fear of reprisals. Here, I am an ex-pat and therefore free to come and go as I please.
While Malians were being asked to sit down Carrie went up front and danced. Habib walked down to where she was and played directly to her. The folks in the back stood on their chairs to watch it happen. They even high fived her on her way back to me. After some time the three of us went up front. We were the only people dancing. I let my hair down and did a little head banging. We got to meet the band after the show, Habib insisted on a photo with Carrie.
The Niebancks had actually met Habib Koité when he performed in Seattle. They brought us a CD when they came to visit. Ultimately I purchased another. Upon hearing of his imminent arrival in Sadiola, I took it upon myself to encourage everyone I know to attend. I burned CD’s and talked him up as best I could. A few of our friends showed up. They were all glad they had come.
Sunday evening we were walking home from the school when we happened to bump into…Habib Koité. He recognized us right away. He said that while I was head banging, he started head banging. This confused his dancers as they had never seen him do such a thing before. As always seems to be the case when I meet someone even remotely famous, I was a geek and asked inane questions and came across as a babbling idiot.
Mohammed came home yesterday to say that the whole village was talking about those crazy dancing South Africans. He set them straight, making sure they knew that he worked for us. Maybe this means I’ll get better prices in the village.
MJR
Man have I been busy. It’s hard to find time to write these days. I have all these ideas and thoughts swirling around in my head, but there are not enough hours in the day to put them in writing. So now the question is; where do I begin?
I have begun teaching music. We are learning how to play the recorder. I have introduced students to music theory and have tried to stir their interest in rhythm instruments. During a recent lesson we worked on separating noise from music. We banged on tables, chairs, calabashes, and each other to determine when the music stopped and the noise began. Thus the revelation that the noise begins at the moment the music ends.
Speaking of music, we had a concert here last weekend. The mine hired a fellow named Habib Koité to play for their annual employee party. They set him up on the basketball court at the Malian school near the mine village. The court borders the soccer field and next to the parking lot is a bar. The perfect set up. The sound wasn’t that great but the music was awesome. Habib plays the guitar. His is not traditional Malian music, but incorporates a lot of the elements within it. He had a talking drummer that was fantastic.
The weird thing was that nobody danced. They had a big area set up for dancing, but very few folks actually got up and danced. There were tons of Malians in attendance and very few ex-pats, yet no one danced. Finally Carrie turned to me and asked if she could go dance. I considered that for a moment and then I had a very strange thought; of course you can, you’re an ex-pat and ex-pats can do what they please. Talk about white privilege.
It is as if each person here has a role. There are jobs and expectations. I have experienced this before, but it never quite dawned on me the way it did on Saturday night. When we got a flat tire in Sadiola I wanted to help fix it. I was allowed to help, but only because I pushed. After all, physical labor falls within the realm of the black man, but the white guy can do whatever he wants (not spoken, but felt). It doesn’t work the other way around.
This became clear to me at the concert. I was free to wander wherever I wanted. I carried Zachary up to the stage, walked around the side, stood close to the ballofon player, walked around to the back to watch the drummer, and chatted with the security guy. There are places in America that I would not be allowed in. Furthermore I wouldn’t even try to enter some of those places for fear of reprisals. Here, I am an ex-pat and therefore free to come and go as I please.
While Malians were being asked to sit down Carrie went up front and danced. Habib walked down to where she was and played directly to her. The folks in the back stood on their chairs to watch it happen. They even high fived her on her way back to me. After some time the three of us went up front. We were the only people dancing. I let my hair down and did a little head banging. We got to meet the band after the show, Habib insisted on a photo with Carrie.
The Niebancks had actually met Habib Koité when he performed in Seattle. They brought us a CD when they came to visit. Ultimately I purchased another. Upon hearing of his imminent arrival in Sadiola, I took it upon myself to encourage everyone I know to attend. I burned CD’s and talked him up as best I could. A few of our friends showed up. They were all glad they had come.
Sunday evening we were walking home from the school when we happened to bump into…Habib Koité. He recognized us right away. He said that while I was head banging, he started head banging. This confused his dancers as they had never seen him do such a thing before. As always seems to be the case when I meet someone even remotely famous, I was a geek and asked inane questions and came across as a babbling idiot.
Mohammed came home yesterday to say that the whole village was talking about those crazy dancing South Africans. He set them straight, making sure they knew that he worked for us. Maybe this means I’ll get better prices in the village.
MJR
posted by Bronx to Timbuktu at 3:27 PM
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