KINGSTON-FORT DE FRANCE-CURAÇAO-RIO
MANAUS-PANAMA

Singing in the rain forest

Having fallen for the charms of an irresistible girl from Lyons, I marry her in a locksmith's shop in Kingston, Jamaica. The ceremony feels more functional than sacred, somehow.

Our honeymoon takes us on the rum trail. In Trinidad, our rental car gets a flat tyre. A handsome man, flashing a mischievous smile and holding a guitar, approaches us. He improvises a song in our honour: "This foreigner comes from a wealthy land, and he needs to understand, that the tyres made here are of poor quality. Trinidadians obviously prefer laughter to hard work..."

His comical laments soon become more incisive and biting, as he proceeds to decry our wealth. Then, the tempo slows down, and, in a syrupy voice, he attempts to lull the jealous and possessive husband to sleep, in order to make lewd and suggestive allusions ("My big bamboo...").

That little incident notwithstanding, however, calypso music is quite pleasant to listen to. Routine, everyday occurrences are brought to life and given spice and flavour through music. The same tradition exists in Cuba as well, but the "repentitstas" prefer to tease their contemporaries in verse. Unfortunately, the discovery of petroleum in Trinidad has lead to a taming-down of the local customs. Vade petrol, satanas....

*******

This pleasant journey inspires me to create a festival which, through the guitar, would make it possible to get back in touch with the roots of Caribbean music. The "Guitar Crossroads" festival would go on to become a regular event in Martinique, which welcomed musicians from Africa, America, and Europe. And it is in Martinique that my beloved wife meets a singing instructor, Mrs. Eda-Pierre (the famous singer's mother), who teaches the delights of the operatic arts to her.

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In Brazil, my concerts are a bit more profitable this time than they were the last time. We can even afford to dine in restaurants. At the Meridien Hotel in Rio, the wine steward, who recognized us for the wine aficionados that we are, took a liking to us. This smiling Brazilian is donning the traditional attire of the wine taster: the small silver jar negligently hangs from his neck, which is a sign of his competence. One day, however, he became the victim of a wild alcohol-drenched feira (celebration/party), his uniform and know-how therefore having been passed on to his cousin. His temporary fill-in takes our order and ceremonially brings us a bottle of dust covered Echezeau. He presents it to us by leaning forward, as he'd been expertly taught to do that same morning. This meets our approval, but he then kills the mood by making a flagrant and most regrettable error. He carries the bottle over his right shoulder, as he's supposed to do, but then slightly turns his head and begins to shake our expensive bottle vigorously, with a look of intense concentration. Perhaps he mistook it for a maracas.

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In the Amazon, the heat is stifling, and the wildlife there is somewhat disturbing. The natives' pharmacopoeia, as is the case in all forests, boasts highly advanced medicinal sciences. The Xingu Indians even concoct a mixture of roots for me, intended to relieve morning hangovers, and which proves to be far more effective than Alka Seltzer. They would certainly make a fortune by selling that on the market.

The music of these tribes is highly concise. Little spherical bells made of ant eaters' hooves, and rattles made with seed-filled gourds, provide the beat for singing, horns, flutes, or clarinets made of bamboo. Having been introduced to the region via the "cabocos", half-castes with African and Indian roots, the guitar now fills the virgin forests.

Unfortunately, this phenomenon has had rather dire consequences for the environment. Because large quantities of wood are needed in order to meet the rapidly growing guitar market's demands. Japan in particular. Now, Manaus has become a duty-free zone held essentially by Japanese immigrants who have been present in the region for generations, and who therefore provide the logical interface between the producers and the consumers. So much for the vegetation. As for the wildlife, it provides the scales of a big fish, which are used as nail files by the Indians. These files accelerate the growth of nails, and are therefore very useful for a guitarist. They can be found in Tokyo boutiques.

In the heart of this city, located in the heart of the Amazon, the opera house has just reopened. I inaugurate it in grand style. A jump and a half-skip away, half-naked Indians walk along the Amazon river. In the Italian-styled theatre, the intelligentsia, wearing evening gowns and tuxedos, appears for the concert...

The cuisine is exotic: anaconda, tapir, jaguar, caiman, and tatu (which resembles a moving guitar). All of this is accompanied by red-hot spices, the effects of which can be contained by licking a Creole girl's hair.

The tarantulas which are found throughout the region aren't very appetizing. No one eats the tiny ouistitis monkeys, which is a good thing considering that I couldn't resist the roguish little eyes of "Bahia", who weighs 250 grams, and whom I obtained for a few guitar strings.

The animal is a little frightened in the 747 which takes off from Manaus. Nevertheless, when dessert is served, our little monkey spots a cream puff which has been served to the distinguished lady sitting behind us. Bahia, who presumably never once saw whipped cream at the top of her native region's coconut palms, suddenly decides that she has to have that dessert. With lightning-quick speed, she jumps on it, splashing the passenger with cream in the process. At the sight of this rat in the middle of her dish, the unfortunate V.I.P. begins to scream so loud that, apparently, even the people in the control tower heard her, which makes them quite nervous.

In addition to cream puffs, Bahia also loves caviar, alcohol, and insects. She also seems to enjoy the sounds of the guitar, although I wonder if it's really the music that she likes? When I deliberately play out of key, or in a cacophonic way, she doesn't lose interest. Which leads me to believe that it's the sounds in and of themselves that intrigue her more than anything else.

Travelling with Bahia isn't easy: one suitcase has to contain nothing but heaters. Moreover, in order to avoid problems with customs officers, my wife had to devise a special pocket to carry the animal. Everyone simply assumed she was pregnant and left it at that.

*******

Curacao is a veritable cocktail of civilisations and cultures living on an island which is 70 km long and 40 km wide. A handful of Frenchmen live among their Dutch, English, German, Arab, Jewish, Caribbean Indian, Hindu, Portuguese, Spanish, and African neighbours.

Everyone speaks "Papimiento", which is a mixture of all of those languages, based on African dialects.

The port of Bokasami is only inhabited by green-eyed blacks. Sitting in an outdoor cafe, we share a table with a Dutch woman who produces the local rum. We laugh at the sight of these beautiful children cavorting in the sea. A Russian Lada car stops near us. A Vietnamese couple offers to sell some of their homemade food to us. An English pilot seated next to us decides to take them up on their offer. A strange instrument resembling a jukebox plays in the background. It's called a "cayorgan", and looks like a cross between an organ and an Italian 18^th century music box. A French sea captain, who had fallen in love with a Creole girl at the time, sold his entire collection of 22 instruments, which remain active to this day. They're occasionally taken apart, in order to adapt their repertoire to more contemporary pieces.

Someone turns the cayorgan on. The green-eyed black children immediately get out of the water and start dancing. I open up the local newspaper, "Ultimo Noticio". An enormous headline reads "Omber 32 Ano Cometo Suicido". A 32-year old man has committed suicide. In Curacao, such news is unthinkable, and considered devastating by people in general. Suicides are thought of as a symbol of an entire society's failures. It should be noted that people don't commit suicide in Africa, unlike in the rest of the world. In places like Japan, even children take it upon themselves to deliberately end their own lives.

A tall, hulking man suddenly arrives. His name is Sean Cola, the reigning master of "tambu". This consists of improvising political satires accompanied by African rhythms. He picks up my guitar and sings a piece called "Papa a Nister", which means "Papa Coughed" . Papa is the nickname given to a local and important politician, who has just "coughed up" information right before the election, which has caused quite a stir throughout the island. Sean Cola is invited -- and paid -- from village to village. A record company in Curacao, familiar with his following, has released an L.P. of the coughing in question, and it is often played on the radio. To thank him, I play a completely apolitical Bach piece. A bit later, I watch a "tumba": musicians and dancers preparing for a contest at the carnival which is being held on the port.

A rather drunken Spaniard (we've been drinking large quantities of cocktails under the sun) borrows my guitar to perform a flamenco demonstration. He then hands it over to a black man who, as is the case throughout the globe, does his utmost to convey Negro authenticity in his playing. The Englishman finds all of this rather irritating and puts the cayorgan back on. The black man responds by singing louder. The tumba then passes by once again, blocking the Vietnamese's Lada. They beep in frustration..

To escape this polyphony, and also to cleanse my spirit which has been stiffened by rum -- to which all roads led today -- I dive into the water so beautiful it appears to match the eye colour of these villagers.

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The islands of Panama are the sole refuge spared by invaders or "liberators" of the Amerindian continent. One can still hear its diverse music forms intact. Nevertheless, one gets an increasing sense that these last traces of a disappeared civilization, which orally passed on its traditions and culture for centuries, is finding it more and more difficult to contain the onslaught.

It is the guitar- that pernicious little devil- which has begun to accompany brushed drums, little spherical bells, and flutes. The old Indians try still to drown out that instrument, which is considered to be a symbol of western civilization, with their monotonous chants.

South American music remains palpably bitter about the cruelty which history has imposed on it. It is often presented as message music, which takes away from its purity. "Protestas" (protest songs) , however justified they may be, inevitably result in a demystification- a contrived attempt at musical salvation.

After the thesis and the antithesis, however, we now have the synthesis in the form of unhampered and uncomplexed artists.