Poetry // Current TV

Off to Bamako

After all the hoopla and tears of yesterday, we settle in on the roof. The starry canopy, the rustle of breeze from the Dakar shore, it’s a respite refuge. Papa and Karamo trade kora, get Bea to sing. I read a few poems, we make up songs, poems, sayings, teasings, proddings, yuks. It’s the oral tradition in action, and as ephemeral as Eric Dolphy’s last date, real life art.

Tough sleep, Papa too. We’re up at dawn to pray. Hit the local internet as its opening at 9, and sign in, but before we can do anything I realize the guy gave us hour (not half-hour) passes and guess what – they don’t work. Nothing works, oy. Into town, Place de l’Independence, big email place signs us in, I am able to upload our first photo! A young boy cooling out under the Barack Obama Bookstore sign. But, get this – Bea’s mom forgot to attach the passport PDF! It’ll be hours before we can get the copy. Tragedy rearing, we decide to hit the Brazilian Embassy anyway (BTW, we were stuck in the elevator there yesterday for five hellish minutes).

And Lo and Behold! Bea, now a Goddess as well as a Genius, is able to walk out half an hour later with a new passport in hand. Tip o’ Hat to Carlos Leite and his staff!

We shoot some great interviews about Senghor, and the port billboard as well. Run into his wife’s sister-in-law. Our cab driver knows nothing, a great moment. Lots in Wolof, the Arabicky-rasp and lightning crashing amazingly against the rolly rotundity of Mandinka…

Let’s make some passport Xeroxes, put ‘em in the Black Book (production book), what say?

And then, let’s go Bamako!

Simply Put on the Roof

Want to hear a poem: call Bob

Want to hear a kora: call Papa

Want to watch a movie: call Bea

Want to put it all together and sing it at the same time: call Karamo

Bob Holman is the host of a new travel series focused on endangered languages called ON THE ROAD WITH BOB HOLMAN on LINK TV. He traveled to West Africa, Middle East and Asia and these are his blog stories from his travels. More information at http://www.rattapallax.com/blog/on_the_road/After all the hoopla and tears of yesterday, we settle in on the roof. The starry... more

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Karamo Susso

Let me just take a moment and introduce you to our Sound Guy, Papa’s fourth child (in fact, it’s here at the Brazil Embassy, when I ask Karamo which number child he is that we learn this from Papa – Papa’s first child Bunka, named for Papa’s jelikuntigi (lead griot) father, who died at the age of two).

26, handsome, laid back, devoted to Father and family, an awesome brilliant kora player, I first spoke to Karamo a couple weeks before I left for Africa. Papa overheard Ram and me talking about hiring a soundman – I was deep into last minute French classes, lunching with the wondrous Banning Eyre of “In Griot Time,” Timbala’s guitarist, and Afro-Pop renown, getting filmmaker Sandra Paugam to translate my francais mauvais to the travel agent recommended by Alain Kirili, the sculptor who often works in Segou and Dogon country, hiring MC Paul Barman to be my assistant back home, Peter Townsend (the architect, not The Who guitarist (with “h”)) to fix up apartment – But enough about me! “On the Griot Trail” needed a local sound man because, folks, I’m too untrained and was already booked as host/director/producer/friend of Papa. And when Papa heard this he had the solution!

Karamo grew up in Ballike Sissoko’s compound in Bamako – his mother, Papa’s second wife, is Ballike’s sister. He speaks perfect French, Bambara. And he is a first-class griot, though he prefers not to sing. He writes his band’s music. He is in the process of building a sound studio at Papa’s compound. He’s dedicated and terrific and reliable and, well, I just can’t say enough about this team, the dedication and talent, and the great gift of having Karamo with us. The trip provokes problems with his girlfriend in Old Jeshwang, but he seems dedicated to her. Bea broke up with her boyfriend, just a few days ago. And of course there’s my loss, too, my wife Elizabeth, inspiration for this trip, a year ago. So we’re all kind of openhearted orphans right now, a bit tender and propping each other up as we run through this streak of bad luck.

Bear with us. We’ll return to our regularly scheduled poem in a moment.

Bob Holman is the host of a new travel series focused on endangered languages called ON THE ROAD WITH BOB HOLMAN on LINK TV. He traveled to West Africa, Middle East and Asia and these are his blog stories from his travels. More information at http://www.rattapallax.com/blog/on_the_road/Let me just take a moment and introduce you to our Sound Guy, Papa’s fourth... more

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Hitting Bottom

CLONKKK. End of elevator freefall, doors do not open. Eight in an elevator built for eight’s a tight squeeze and it’s getting tighter. And hotter. Papa wants to be at the controls but the man in between doesn’t understand his English-Mandinka, this being Dakar, a modern building with four elevators, two, now three, out of service. Papa finds the bell button and pushes it, but gets the same response as the other buttons, i.e., nothing. We’re stuck below Garage Level, at the very botto of the shaft, trying to get to the Brazilian Embassy. Yes, Bea’s wallet belt with passport, credit cards, a little cash, lens brush and the tape of the Obama t-shirt/“Goody Samedi” party is somehow missing from the cousins of Papa’s where we’re staying in the very neighborhoody neighborhood of Liberte 5. Kamaro found the lens brush outside the house. Bad sign. Bea had given me her iPod to charge last night so the wallet made it in the house. Yet the people where we’re staying are so utterly honest, guileless. Theft is out of the question.

Bea discovered the loss at 8:30am – I had just switched into my Obama border-crossing attire, ready to go to the Senghor Airport and buy tickets to leave for Bamako. Now I take Barack off and we head into town. First photos, then internet – alas, can’t find Bea’s passport copy on line, but the This Paper Works As a Visa On Account of There Is No Mali Consulate in Brazil document is still there on PDF, so we have that and a fistful of other ID in Bea’s other wallet to try for a quick new passport.

There’s always been an element of The Making Of in “Griot Trail,” and we’re certainly in that mode now – the living part of being on the trail has totally overtaken the art part. We didn’t take the rented YMCA camera into downtown Dakar so we could just concentrate on getting passport and tickets to Mali. But while downtown, I realize that Place de l’Independence, the town center, is the place to shoot the Senghor bites, and then on the way out of town, by the port, I see a giant billboard with a Senghor quote on it….

We’ll shoot these pick-ups tomorrow when we go back to town, walk up the stairs to the Brazilian Embassy and get Bea’s new passport. I’ve got the tickets to Bamako. Leave tomorrow at 4:30pm on Air Kenya. Ench’allah.

So while Bea and Karamo go to the police station to file the report that needs to be handed in to retrieve the passport, I’m thinking about how Karamo came on board, how he’s learning things from Papa that he would never have heard had they not been traveling together making this film. In a sense Part II, Bamako, and III, after Papa leaves, will include the generational handoff, the father to son ( now it could just as easily be to daughter) tradition of the griots, as part of the front story.

Bob Holman is the host of a new travel series focused on endangered languages called ON THE ROAD WITH BOB HOLMAN on LINK TV. He traveled to West Africa, Middle East and Asia and these are his blog stories from his travels. More information at http://www.rattapallax.com/blog/on_the_road/CLONKKK. End of elevator freefall, doors do not open. Eight in an elevator built for... more

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African Time

I finally ask Karamo to look at my watch. We cannot figure out what day it is. Bea and I think it is the 15th, Karamo assures us it’s the 18t. I can’t make out the date on my watch because the hour hand is bisecting it. Pause.

We’ve been in Africa less than a week and we’ve lost three days.

The main reason it takes so long to drive Gambia are the police stops, about every 25 miles – every time you enter a new district they have to make sure you are not sneaking in from Senegal. Occasionally they’ll wave you through after you slow to a stop, but usually they scrutinize the driver’s ID and insurance and the white folks’ passports, and a couple times they tried to shake us down.

One policeman asserted that the fact the Gambian stamp entering from Senegal didn’t have an exit date meant I was illegal. Papa tried convincing him that it wasn’t my fault, and then I told the story of my triumphant entrance into the Gambia: instead of paying a tax on the blank tapes we brought with us, the Commander of the Border gave me his card, a smile, and a copy of the Koran, which stunned Papa – evidentially, there is no more auspicious act than being given a Koran. And all I had to do was promise to help get his son into Columbia, no problem. This particular cop wasn’t moved, and it wasn’t until I asked his name (Sanghay) that he backed off.

Between Sotuma Sere and Basse maybe a hundred cars a day pass, which gives the paramilitary police at the checkpoint plenty of time to think of a scam, and the one they came up with was pretty good. The stern policeman stuck his head in the car and told the driver to get out. The crime: Bea, who was shooting Papa’s childhood from the front seat, did not have her seatbelt on. AND, the policeman as policeman said as he carefully unfolded an ancient Xerox, THAT is against the law!

I went into my professor spiel: educational intent West African Culture to the world of poetry yes yes after which policeman as policeman says, Can you read? I take the paper.

It’s the paper that is central here, the magical power of writing. Like many 5 and 10 Dilasi notes (2 ½ cents a Dilasi), it had been so used that it had turned to vellum, the letters weakening, changing to other letters, the folds more like rivers than creases, the vellum feeling like earth, dust just barely formed into a solid.

The writing was that peculiar colonial Brit that you hear from bureaucrats here. Section 3, Subsection (d) Paragraph 2 says that unless you are an ambulance, security vehicle or fire truck ON DUTY (emphasis policeman as policeman’s) front seat driver and passenger MUST wear their seat belts, or they can be arrested.

Bob Holman is the host of a new travel series focused on endangered languages called ON THE ROAD WITH BOB HOLMAN on LINK TV. He traveled to West Africa, Middle East and Asia and these are his blog stories from his travels. More information at http://www.rattapallax.com/blog/on_the_road/I finally ask Karamo to look at my watch. We cannot figure out what day it is. Bea and... more

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Dedicated to the One I Love

I get the bed under the mosquito net, Papa’s on the mattress on the floor.... more

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Where We’ll Be Staying in Bamako

I ask Kinda if he knows Ballake Sisoko, the great kora player. No. He knows that... more

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What Papa Susso Said

Papa Susso on Making an Appointment

Don’t call. If you call they will have an excuse. They will expect something. Just go to the door, dadadada. You are in, you are talking. You sent two emails, no reply, they are too busy. Unless you are there, they are too busy. How many emails from people who don’t come, who say they are coming at one time and come hours later or the next day. No, Bob, listen to me –

An appointment in the face takes place

An appointment in the book stays on the hook

The oral tradition trumps.

Papa Susso on the Word “Griot”

Papa says he’s a griot, his father called himself a griot, his father’s father was a griot, all the way back, that’s good enough for him. And good enough for 26-year old Karamo (Wolof: Karamoko), his son and our Sound Director (and an amazing musician who’s putting his wages towards building a recording studio in Papa’s compound). He’s a griot and his father, etc.

But many people, including some griots, really hate the word, thinking it a colonial holdover. And “griot” does seem French, eh? From “cri haut,” or loud cry, shout, and certainly griots are shouters, yes indeed. And the fact is that “griot” is the only word found in all West African languages. In addition every language has its own word for the oral historian/praise singer/poet/musician – in Mandinke, that’s jeli (male), jelimussow (female, or griotte), jeliya (the tradition or way of life of the jeli and jellimussow). Professor Thomas Hale, one of the advisors for “On the Griot Trail,” in his essential text, Griots and Griottes, traces the lineage of “griot” back through the Islamic conversion route to the kewalie singers of India, like the great Ali Akhbar Khan. I can hear it.

For the opposition I quote Amiri Baraka: “It must be jam, cause jeli don’t shake like that.”

Bob Holman is the host of a new travel series focused on endangered languages called ON THE ROAD WITH BOB HOLMAN on LINK TV. He traveled to West Africa, Middle East and Asia and these are his blog stories from his travels. More information at http://www.rattapallax.com/blog/on_the_road/Papa Susso on Making an Appointment Don’t call. If you call they will have an... more

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Utopia

Bea and Kinda and I are sitting around after breakfast. Kinda taught me how to disable... more

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Death in the Compound

I suppose I should have been expecting Binta’s death. I met her for the first time yesterday, we shook hands, her touch was light, nonexistent, her skin ashy. She is Papa Susso’s third daughter with his first wife, it was hepatitis. Her brother Hassan, who I helped get to the US with visa and plane fare, had found a hospital and doctor in Poughkeepsie who would treat her without a fee. Hassan’s employer had lent him enough cash to qualify him as sponsor, but the visa people said No good, we need bank statements going back months that show you have the money. So, this was a few weeks ago in New York, I accepted being her sponsor, faxed in bank statements, letter of responsibility. She was to return to the Consulate on Monday. This is Friday. You could say she died of Bureaucracy.

Papa comes over this morning to tell me the funeral will be at 2, be at his compound by 1. And, then horror upon horrors, Binta’s grandmother, who had been grieving voluminously, died this morning. Just fell over. Now two funerals at 2. “When it’s your time, it’s your time,” says Papa stoically, “that’s all you can say.” But his voice says a lot more. It is hoarse and rough, full of disbelief. Dissociated from his body. His voice is crying.

The Funeral

Five hundred Muslim men are walking at a good clip through Old Jashwang. I made it to Papa’s at 1 and Binta had already been buried – we are now going to bury Aja Amie Susso, her grandmother, and the traffic on the main highway stops as we make our way to the cemetery.

I run into the star of yesterday’s Kora Festival, Alhaji Mbaye, a bravura kora player and shouter griot. With his wife, the extraordinary jelimussow, Mariama Sakho, he had put together the Fest – I empathize, the artist taking on the admin work, common enough worldwide. “I am so sorry,” he begins, “and the death of her best friend, too, they were so connected!” “But it was her grandmother.” “Oh yes! Her grandmother, of course!” And I realize I am now taking my part in this great chain of information, the ongoing poem that is the Oral Tradition. I am here as a Susso.

The only women here are the two in the ground. The cemetery is overgrown dried vines, tree stumps, sand. You get the feeling that the event is what matters, after that nothing happens here. Until the next time. Everyone’s packed around the open grave. The Imam speaks maybe a little too long in the broiling sun, I feel the shuffling impatience begin, but we have to suffer a little, and the Imam’s voice is bold and righteous, and speaks, Papa tells me, of the rarity of two deaths in the same house, how we accept the will of Allaah. Plywood on top of the caskets. Some branches and leaves are snapped off of one of the few nearby stumps that still grow, and then the dirt is shoveled in, tossed on, and we all head back. Twenty minutes.

Bob Holman is the host of a new travel series focused on endangered languages called ON THE ROAD WITH BOB HOLMAN on LINK TV. He traveled to West Africa, Middle East and Asia and these are his blog stories from his travels. More information at http://www.rattapallax.com/blog/on_the_road/I suppose I should have been expecting Binta’s death. I met her for the first... more

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First Kora Festival of the Gambia

We get back to the 10am Kora Festival at about 3:30 and it’s as if they were waiting for us to begin. Greetings greetings greetings from all all all as we walk into Maali Music School, first place in Gambia to teach kora to non-griot families (the caste system is breaking down – see Salif Keita, talk to Papa’s daughters). Evidently there were some kids’ workshops after Papa and I left for our Banjul jaunt, so we’re actually back in time for the first performance, and the room – well, courtyard – is energized. Hey wait – what’s this? Familiar face? Unbelievably, I actually know people here! From hanging with Papa at the Bowery Poetry Club and in the Bronx, saltations from Gambian griots now back home in Banjul. I love being on their turf! Guess I’m home, too.

Here’s the voluble griot Djelimadi Kanuteh with his endless smile taking the mic and introducing (griots are always introducing, it’s the monologue version of the call-and-response hello). Djelamadi holds a well-thumbed hardcover of Tom Hale’s book, in which he’s mentioned – the one that has Papa Susso’s picture in it! On top of the book is a portable CD player cued up to his solo griot CD, which I remember being recorded in NY in 2004. And here, dressed in the same gray boubou he was wearing last time I saw him, the wild-eyed, sharp-tongued and sharp-witted marabout Manjacko Susso, who had been a major player at the concert at the Gambian Cultural Center in the Bronx just a couple months ago. Sponsored by the Center and Bowery Arts & Science (co-producers of On the Road with YT, thank you very much!). Manjacko is a wild card, mischievous, an expert at grabbing the mic and getting jibes in edgewise. There are others, too – education is remembering names here –it’s Old Home Week! Papa and I settle in, right up front, and the music begins.

Mandinke greetings are minutes-long rituals, contain the essence and origins of call and response, and I’ve learned to just respond in English (acceptable here in Gambia which was a British colony, so English is the “common tongue,” unlike Francophone Senegal and Mali) to keep the rhythm flowing: Soomalay How are you? Eebaday OK Thanks Torraceeta Hope you’re having no problems? Tacita No problems and then on to the family and the job, etc., etc. We’re doing the whole thing now, and it’s real – I never expected to make it all the way here and discover I’m just another part of the family. On the griot trail indeed. Boisterous, jovial, touching, jeliya. In Wolof, guewel. In Fula, Nyamakala.

Where is the First Kora Festival held? Not at the big concert hall downtown because – there is no big concert hall downtown.!There are no large venues in the Gambia at all – the notion of going to a concert, play, poetry reading is not in the vocabulary. This I learn from one of the Festival coordinators, Uisadou Ndjie, who is the only woman on stage. She favors an academic approach, felt the Festival would be more successful were it held indoors with planned breakout groups and discussions. The griots come to your house for ceremonies, and the upper crust makes it to events at hotels. So this Festival truly is an experiment – halfway between folk and academy, art and history, popular and classic. Thus it’s held out in the boonies for an audience of maybe a hundred. And the result is a party unlike any other. The norm for the life of the griot….

Bob Holman is the host of a new travel series focused on endangered languages called ON THE ROAD WITH BOB HOLMAN on LINK TV. He traveled to West Africa, Middle East and Asia and these are his blog stories from his travels. More information at http://www.rattapallax.com/blog/on_the_road/We get back to the 10am Kora Festival at about 3:30 and it’s as if they were... more

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