Push your Boundaries, but Recognize your Limits

“Push your boundaries, but recognize your limits”. This was the advice given to us by Whitney, our IREX Coordinator here in Senegal.

Down the shallow red cliff from our hotel is a small shack sitting on the beach. It is made of wooden poles with thatched roofing, held together with rope, leaning against the cliff face for support. Locally made shirts and pants of Senegalese design hang from the front of the shack, streaming wildly in the cool breeze coming in from the Atlantic. On the sand in front of the shack lay a few small paintings of various quality, obviously done by different artists – some masters, some novice. Next to the shack sits 4 men, each looking to be in their mid-20s, wearing clothing similar to what is being tossed about in the wind at the shack. Each day that I have walked by the beach, one of these men approached me to tell me about his art and invite me to the shack for tea. Being used to panhandlers, swindlers, and merchants of all sorts looking to take advantage of tourists, I would always quickly but politely decline and walk away. Today, finally deciding to make better use of the beach, I went for a walk in the water. I was approached by one of these men who recognized me and invited me to shop at the shack again. This time, I said I would come by to see it before they closed for the day. Feeling like I could easily be surrounded and mugged in the shack, I left my phone, passport, cash, and everything but 2,250 CFA (about $5) in my hotel room before returning to the beach. I walked to the shack and was warmly greeted in French by 3 of the men. At first, we simply tried to converse in English. I found out that they were not only artists, but also musicians who played in the carnival that was happening at our hotel. I told them that I also played music, including the banjo, and was learning the akonting from Casamance. They seemed interested in the fact that I was trying to learn a traditional Senegalese instrument, and asked me to sit with them in the sand as they pulled out their instruments. The first had a large three tined kalimba, made from a calabash gourd. The second had a rattle, also made of a gourd, and the third sang and danced. The percussive sound was soothing and enchanting. They were masters of syncopation, playing one melodic rhythm on the three tines of the kalimba while tapping out another with a shell on the face of the instrument. The rattle player shook out a completely different but complementary rhythm, while the singer stomped the beach sand on yet another beat, flinging sand into the air. They all began to sing as they played. The song was intricate, with the three syncopated rhythms and elements of repetitive instrumental melody, compounded by melodic vocal wails and choruses. The man with the kalimba allowed me to try and play it, instructing me as best he could in broken English, mixed with French and Wolof. I got the basic right-hand melody down, but the syncopated left-hand tapping was beyond my comprehension. Once I began to play what little I could, the others joined in with rattles, dances, and vocals. After a few brief minutes of jubilation, the fourth man brought out a warm drink for me in a small plastic cup. It was some sort of fruity coffee with a powerful and deep sweetness that I cannot describe. I wondered if I was being secretly drugged, and waited for the effects of whatever may have been put into the drink to take hold, but none came. It was a total, genuine moment of “Taranga”, the Senegalese word for “hospitality” – a cultural staple of the nation that is so ingrained into the people that the word appears in nearly every local song. After finishing my coffee, and with great appreciation and relief for not being mugged, I tipped the men 1,000 CFA (about $2) for the coffee and the music lesson, and told them that I hoped to return the next day with my newly acquired African akonting and banjo. They were quite thankful and excited, and we exchanged hugs and an interesting cultural show of friendship were you shake hands, bow, and raise the other persons hand, hitting it gently but quickly against your forehead. This motion was then repeated by the other party for a couple of repetitions. We walked away speaking the kindest few words we knew (for me, “thank you” in Wolof and Saafi, and for them, “peace and love” in English).

Of this bright and genuine exchange of culture, I have no record, outside of my memory, as I locked my phone away in my hotel room.