TAMANRASSET-IN GUEZZAM
AGADES-NIAMEY

A road less traveled

My musicianship has reached a new level. My talent is now bonafide. Professionalism looms ahead of me. That makes me nervous

Fortunately, I have yet to finish my exploration of Africa, something I've been wanting to do. I'll postpone my entry into the world of professionalism for another year or two. With the money I made in Rome, I bought a Volkswagen van, a sort of hybrid between a car and a caravan. It has a comfortable bed, a refrigerator capable of storing anything from champagne to palm wine, and a kitchenette where I can cook anything from camel bourgignon to snake stew.

Since I’m uneasy about the way people here casually assume the rich will come to the aid of the poor (while stealing his car, one piece at a time), I install a special alarm, which causes the horn to go off at the slightest movement of the vehicle. I also placed the following sign on the windshield: "Eccellenti signori ladri, I live in the neighborhood. Please find another vehicle!"

The thieves in my neighborhood (Trastevere) got the message, and so, loaded like a sherpa, I make my way toward the continent that had so deeply affected me two years earlier. I'm ready for the challenge. My virtuoso guitar hand will be coated in axle grease.

I'm immediately put to the test. There are no roads leading directly to Tamanrasset and the trip is difficult. While in the dead center of the Tademait plateau, an immense mass of black rocky soil, the stabilizer bar—an essential piece of my van—snaps as I’m driving over a deep rut. The nearest city, Tamanrasset, is 200 kilometers away. My life is not in any immediate danger since, sooner or later, a truck is bound to pass by. Wisely, I decide to stay on the beaten track. But I'm not about to abandon the van, when I’ve barely had a chance to get started!

I scan the horizon, contemplating my misfortune. Damn, another mirage! Nothing but distant shadows. And as usual I seem to see people moving. The heat is stifling. Luckily, I've got plenty of fluid with me—Algerian law requires that travelers carry three and a half liters of water per person per day. Of course, I've bent the rules a bit by bringing along large quantities of wine instead. I do have one jerrycan of water, however, fastened to the roof. A consolation prize, should I happen to run out.

Let's try to get out of here. My van putters slowly towards the mirage. And the mirage becomes a miracle. It turns out to be the only caravan responsible for maintaining the trails of the Algerian Sahara! Within a half-hour the team's mechanic has rewelded the bar, as I sip an ice-cold beer they were kind enough to offer.

A young man wearing a suit and bow tie is hitchhiking at the exit to the camp. He strikes me as being so utterly incongruous that I offer him a ride. Mistake. This Belgian bookseller and water sports enthusiast is extremely courteous, but far too clumsy to be of use under the circumstances. Since he doesn't drink wine, he helps himself to water from the jerrycan. But he forgets to put the cap back on when he’s done. Thanks to this lover of water, I wind up crossing half the Sahara without any.

*******

I'll never forget those strange nights spent sitting around a "campfire" made from a burning tire. The supernatural silence and overwhelming solitude of the desert encourage meditation and introspection. Being completely alone is quite an experience for an urban refugee like me.

There's a tremendous sense of freedom provided in the monotonous expanse of the desert. Campsites, for instance, are a problem. How do you choose a campsite when every place looks just like every other place? This is what Buridan’s ass must have felt like. The best thing to do is simply shut off the engine and let the van coast to a stop where it will. With no outside factor to predetermine our choice, we no longer choose, we affirm. With or without a guitar the circumstances lead to a state of reflection and contemplation—which is neither nostalgic reminiscence nor nervous anxiety. No, it is simply the flow of time within the immobility of the surrounding expanse. We need a Sahara and a van to feel the world hold its breath.

*******

In Tamanrasset, after performing a concert for a group of veiled Touareg on Christmas Eve, I make plans to attend the midnight mass performed by the Caucasian priests who succeeded Father de Foucault. I promise several of the musicians in attendance that I'll meet up with them afterwards.

The traditional ceremony is held around a large fire in the middle of the desert. The scene is unreal. The fervor and excitement it inspires quickly surpass the customary pomp and solemnity of the ceremony. The priest, during his incantations, of course uses words that evoke religious passion. But it quickly becomes apparent that what he means is just passion. His words take on an unsettling precision. An air of sensuality hangs over the ceremony. His gestures of adoration are adoring in the strict sense of the word.

When his followers lie down on the ground, one senses that their condition is close to erotic. Since I’m a spectator, my fascination is accompanied by a sense of discomfort. At the elevation of the host, the priest whispers something to his assistant, who repeats it to his neighbor, who repeats it to his. Clearly, what was said by the priest must return to him, after having made the rounds of the assembly. While the message is being propagated, one of the priests grabs an old guitar and scratches out a nostalgic tune. When it is my turn, I can’t help but blush, since I usually reserve such bold language for far more pagan rituals. I’m uncertain what to do. Break the circle or break my promise? Flustered, I fail to transmit the message to my neighbor, thus destroying the uniqueness of the moment, which those around me are experiencing. To this day I feel the sense of shame and will never put myself in such a situation again. Either you belong or you stay away. We have a responsibility to live what we see

Outside, a Tuareg with youthful eyes—the blue litham conceals the remainder of his face—is waiting for me.

- I'm bringing you to a meeting of the young women, an ahal, where we play a single-string violin called an imzad.

In the twilight, we hear singing periodically interrupted by bursts of laughter. Near a brook the group of young girls suddenly grows quiet with my arrival. One of them leaves the group to greet me. She is fair-skinned and her features are of an almost unreal regularity. Her eyes are both sweet and authoritarian. She pulls me toward the brook, which is barely lit by the fire.

- Look at yourself in this water. Your face will always be etched in your mind, forever.
Since my own face isn’t covered, the ritual promises to be a meaningful experience

We rejoin the group, where a lively, but crude, game of Truth or Dare is taking place. Several turbaned young men join us. One of them has a guitar, which he uses to accompany the poetry being improvised alternately by the boys and girls. There's more to the game than merely exchanging lyrics, however. In the complicit shadows of the dunes, these casual couples wrap themselves in the perfume of the desert that is carried along with the freshness of the evening dew.

*******

The post at In-Guezzam, the border between Algeria and Niger, is nothing more than an old shack, guarded by a tribe of Touaregs. A team of Swiss explorers, who have obviously failed to consider the importance of travelling light, happens to pass by. One of them, seeing this bit of local color, sets his tripod in the sand, attaches a telephoto lens, and aims it at the nomads’ chief, magnificent in his large blue robe. The chief in turn plants a wooden fork in the sand, balances his antique rifle upon it, and aims it at the intruder who, without saying a word, lifts his head, removes his camera, folds the tripod, and returns to his truck.

Upon my arrival in Niger the exaltation of the trip is enhanced by a group of Mossis. For several nights running, the kora players improvise around a campfire. The kora, which had so fascinated me in Rome, is part harp, part guitar. The instrument is capable of highly complex rhythmic and harmonic structures, but within this vast space, the freedom of the notes instills in the listener—more through their feelings than their perception—a state of weightlessness, catharsis. The sounds are celestial and deeply moving. The kora’s fleeting notes remain forever in the mind of the spent listener. The beautifully defined musical phrases interweave with one another, fixing the moment. The infinitely subtle variations, heartbreaking chords, and rhythmic framing pull the awestruck listener along with the movement of its subtle syncopations. Time contained in a moment. Infinity contained in a void.

These nights of exhilaration are followed by days of apprenticeship. How on earth do they play with such speed and precision? The system is ingenious. The right hand is used to play eleven chords, the left hand ten. The scale ricochets from one hand to the other. C with the left hand, C sharp with the right hand, D with the left hand, etc. There is a subtle alternation between the fingers of the two hands, and the sound is spectacular. Through its rhythm, the kora’s magical phrases guide the listener’s ear in its exploration of this uncanny instrument. But trying to understand what one loves is a dangerous pursuit. It's like trying to discover the taste of perfume. Like abandoning the known for the unknown. In the half-light of dusk, when the sounds of the kora resume, the music again takes flight, analysis is pointless.