NOUAKCHOTT - LAGOS - BANGUI

African journey

Until now I've been living off the money I made in Rome. To continue my trip I'll have to start performing again. My initial contact with Africa was somewhat awkward. Since local customs do not distinguish between music and dialogue, I'll try combining my recitals with commentary.

The first performance is a tough one. It takes place in Nouakchott, the capital of Mauritania. In the Chinese-built university's "People's Auditorium," bloodcurdling anti-French banners are hung on the walls in anticipation of my performance. Some students boo me the moment I start playing. It takes me a good half-hour to calm everyone down and convince them to give me a chance. Once relative silence is restored, a young man stands up

- But we don't understand your music. And we're not interested in it! And what are you doing in our country anyway?

Taken aback by their hostility, I try to use diplomacy to ease the tension.

- You know, the first time I heard Moorish music, I wasn't overly impressed. And yet I listened to it and gave it a chance. Since then I've reached the point where I like it so much that I'm now going to play some of it for you on my guitar. Great nations produce great music!

Embarrassed, my tormentor takes a look around him. Some people start applauding the imperialist that I am. Hopefully I can perform the rest of the concert in peace. The torment isn’t over, however. A group of hired troublemakers continues to make noise. That does it. I've had enough.

- Gentlemen, the concert is over. I'll play a few pieces backstage for anyone who'd like to hear more.

And, with that, I walk away. The audience responds by rushing toward the stage and politely asking me to continue—in silence, as a musician of my stature deserves.

*******

Senegal, Mali, Côte d'Ivoire, Ghana, Togo, Dahomey...my journey is unfolding at a deliciously slow pace. My concerts are better received. To an African the idea of sitting still and listening to music remains a bizarre concept, but the guitar is rising steadily in popularity among the young. This never ceases to amaze me considering the wealth of traditional instruments available here.

*******

In Nigeria the Biafran conflict is coming to an end. Since France was a bit too overt in its support of the secessionists among the oil-rich Ibo, French travelers are systematically denied visas. And without a visa there's no way to continue my trip. Fortunately the Nigerian ambassador was present at my recital. He liked what he heard—either my music or my words—and was willing to see to it that I got the papers I needed.

As I approach Ibo territory the road becomes increasingly difficult. What used to be a paved asphalt road is worse than a Saharan trail, if that's at all possible. Fragments of tarmac form hillocks that protrude from huge pools of slippery clay (freezing rain is nothing compared to the local poto-poto). My speed slows to a crawl for the next several hundred kilometers. Eventually, the van’s chassis broke in two places and I had no choice but to abandon it.

*******

Every thirty kilometers there's a "military" control post. In reality "racketeering" would be a more accurate word for it. Prices vary from one post to another. Sometimes they’re reasonable, other times outrageous. The deeper into the country I go, the more aggressive these "soldiers" become. The contents of my van are emptied onto the road: tape recorders, kitchen appliances, dress clothes, books, canned goods, bottles, and.... my guitar. My suitcases are handed back to me on the barrel of a revolver. A bit farther down the road some young boys ask for money, machine guns pointed at their backs. The guns appear to be in good working condition. Something tells me they're not going to be buying lollipops with that money.

All the bridges have been cut off. Crossing the river is a risky affair that involves stepping across a series of pontoons laid side by side to the other side. At one point the road abruptly ends, only to continue a hundred meters away. Between the two segments is nothing but the violent currents of the river. I look for a passage upstream. Nothing. Several kilometers downstream, on the other hand, a sign warns:

"RAFT FOR MILITARY USE ONLY." They're not kidding. A soldier stands patrol alongside two planks of wood strapped to four empty gasoline drums.

- Is there a bridge nearby?

- No, Sir!

- Can I use the raft?

- No, Sir!

- No exceptions?

- You need special authorization from the colonel.

- Could I see the colonel?

- Sorry, he's on the other side of the river, Sir!

Got it. Negotiations aren't going to be easy. I wind up having to wait 24 hours, after which a highly expensive soldier's agreement is reached. I immediately drive my vehicle down to the sloping river bank. I aim for the two planks, assisted by a corporal. Two soldiers pull on ropes to keep the raft steady. Of course, everyone is singing. My front tires hit the bull's eye. But the van is too heavy for the two thin "dockers." They let go of the raft as I look on in openmouthed stupefaction. The singing stops and is replaced by howling laughter, although I'm distinctly unamused. I’m not used to "bridging" the communications gap this way with the van’s rear wheels clinging to terra firma for dear life.

******

Cut off from everyone I know, filled with anxiety about what might happen next, wondering whether I'll even survive, I keep kicking myself for having charmed the consul with my guitar. I should have turned around in Cotonou, instead of trying to force things. Finally, I make it to the border with Cameroon. It takes a full day of interrogations and negotiations to leave this vast, abundant territory. What a pity to have missed out on the country’s rich cultural heritage, its music and dance, and world-renowned sculpture. I'll have to come back some day, when things calm down a bit.

*******-

- You don’t have a international custom voucher for your car? Then you can't enter the Central African Republic!

Too bad... and everything was going so well, too. Crossing Cameroon went without a hitch, even if my friend, the American consul was nowhere to be found, having returned to Washington in the interim.

- And where can I obtain this voucher?

- In Paris.

Since he’s a product of the French administrative system, the bureaucrat goes out of his way not to be helpful, unlike his English or Portuguese counterparts. Am I going to be stuck here, after everything I've gone through? Yes, judging by all appearances, since the man seems pretty sure of himself.

Suddenly, one of the soldiers standing guard walks up to the van to inspect the inside. Naturally, this sets off the alarm, causing the sound of the horn to fill the air. Stunned, the man runs for cover. Everyone begins to panic. All the government functionaries run into the shack for shelter. A lone arm, an officer, waves at me from a skylight in the midst of all the commotion. A shaken voice is heard from inside the shelter:

Go! You can cross, you can cross!

*******

After a concert in Bangui, the capital of what would later come to be known as the Central African Empire, I headed for Zaire. In Bangassou I have to cross the Oubangui river. Unfortunately, I encounter another little surprise: the ferry is out of order—and was never in order to begin with. And there's no other way of getting to Zaire, which is the only gateway to East Africa. The situation isn't too serious though. For two days the entire village works to connect several dugout canoes together with vine. All the cutting, pruning, tying, and hammering is accompanied by song, which guides the workers, like the magical phrase used to tune the kora. Here too bursts of laughter accompany the movements of the shifting, swaying platform as my front wheels grab hold. The children come to my rescue this time, however. The crossing is interspersed with the rhythmic singing of the rowers, which fill the nervous passenger with a sense of indescribable and renewed joy.

Crossing the Ubangui on 2 dug outs

The Zairian administration is notoriously corrupt.

- Your visa?

- Where can I get one?

- In Brussels.

Around here, this is a cue to make a deal. And sure enough, at the end of the day the guard pockets my money.

- Your papers are in order, but you'll have to go through customs in Bondo.

- Thank you, citizen!

Zairians are called "citizen," Europeans "Sir."

The road is worse than usual. One of the rear wheels is heating up. I stop in a village to examine the axle. Behind me, I suddenly hear a singing voice:

- G, E, G, G, E!

I turn around and see an African. I decode his message:

- THE brake DRUM IS shot!

- Are you a mechanic?

- YES [G]. I WORK-ed for the MER-ce-naries, at the time in-de-PENDANCE was de-CLARED!

- So what do I do?

- You've got TO re-PLACE it.

- But I obviously don't have one!

- I KNOW where you can FIND ONE!

- In the area?

- I will SHOW YOU.

He hops in next to me and guides me through virgin forest. My all-terrain vehicle serves as a bulldozer, tearing down trees, caving in termite hills, and bumping over ruts. I'm forced to turn my headlights on since the canopy of trees and vines is so thick it forms a ceiling a hundred meters above me.

Suddenly, in a clearing, we find ourselves nose-to-nose with the mortal remains of a VW van, pocked with bullet holes.

- The REB-ELS tried TO esCAPE. The MER-ce-na-RIES SHOT them from a PLANE as they were ENT-ering this CLEAR-ing.

Skillfully using my tools, he removes the precious part, singing all the while. He installs it on my van.

- COULD you take ME to Bon-DO?

- Of course I can! My companion is the very model of integrity. Everything he says astonishes my European sensibilities. The nature of things is never questioned. Everything is clear, everything happens for a reason, everything is sensual. I try to get him to explain things to me, to exchange ideas with him, and to find out more about him. He responds by using symbols, legends I am incapable of understanding.

At a stop, we hear the echo of drums. I spontaneously decide to drive towards the sound and we soon reach a large clearing. The entire village is standing in a circle. This isn't your run-of-the-mill ceremony: it's a trial. A woman, renowned for her intuition and investigative skills, has been asked to determine who has committed a theft, something inconceivable in traditional Africa. She is covered with gold and amulets, and wears a leopard skin. My companion warns me: We're in an area inhabited by the much-feared cult of leopard-men. Obviously, no one suspects me of being the culprit this time.

I'm allowed to watch the proceedings. The woman's imprecations, accompanied by the haunting spells cast by the drumming, are impressive to behold. The drums beat faster and faster. The group is drawn into the dance. Hypnotic chants stream from their innermost being. A supernatural pall falls over the place. The rhythm becomes so complex that my tape recorder (which I didn't think of turning on in the first place) would have recorded no more than a deafening, unsteady roar. As in Cotonou the woman enters a trance. There is no mistaking the violence of the spectacle. Her intense gaze peers into the great beyond. Her convulsed tongue transmits a message. She spins madly in front of every villager in attendance. Her gaze is menacing. The crowd of villagers is terrified. This goes on for hours. Suddenly, she stops in front of a young man who, visibly shaken, runs off as fast as he can. He is quickly caught and brought back, however. He confesses that he dreamed of fleeing to the city and needed something to sell for food.

The chief orders him to return the things he's stolen to their rightful owners and to go to the city to earn money for the tribe, which doesn't have any. This is his last chance. If he steals again, he will pay with his life. The detective is lavishly rewarded for her efforts, after which she and her assistant prepare to leave for the next trial, a two-week journey on foot. Her assistant improvises on a thumb piano, known as a "likembe."

As for me, my contribution as a witness involves taking the delinquent to Bondo.

*******

In the evening we camp in the middle of a clearing. The sound of distant drumming fills the air. The sound nearest our camp is clear and piercing. A wake is taking place. Likembes and drums, accompanied by soft singing, evoke strange feelings—neither sadness, nor despair, just a serene and melancholy acceptance of fate in a region where life expectancy isn't much more than thirty years of age.