Journals

About five minutes into the trip, Duncan told me “We are in the poorest section now.”   There wasn’t a huge difference, but the houses were made of less substantial material, and once or twice there was the unmistakable smell of accumulated human waste in the open air.   Most of these plots were separated by handmade bamboo fences, which were effective at ensuring some degree of privacy, even in such close quarters.   As we walked on, I heard music.   A moment later we happened upon a small concert.   A group of about twenty locals was gathering around the entrance to one yard, listening to a three man ensemble playing reggae.   The thing that struck me most was how basic the instruments were.   There was a guitar/banjo made from a metal trash can lid, a neck of wood and four or five wires strung tightly across.   Empty plastic containers served as the percussion instruments, and there was a xylophone constructed out of wood and rope.   Everyone was having a grand time.   Some people were dancing, and some were drinking the local homemade brew, but all of them seemed to be genuinely enjoying themselves.   One guy, who had obviously gotten an earlier start than the rest, kept poking me on the shoulder, trying to tell me the same well-intentioned, but ultimately boring, useless and repetitive things that all African drunks wanted to tell me: how there’s no problem, how I’m welcome, how in (insert city, village or country name) we don’t want trouble and fighting.   Fortunately, everyone else who was enjoying the music kept telling him, in local dialect, to be quiet and let me listen.   Eventually he did just that.     It was getting late, and Duncan was in a hurry as usual, so we only stayed until the end of the song, then clapped and waved goodbye.   Looking back, maybe I should have stuck around longer, but it was enough that I saw this for only a moment.   After living in the sanitized, often mundane world of St. Louis, Missouri, I needed to have my faith in humanity recharged.   I needed to be reminded that the human drive to create and admire something fine can be strong enough to outweigh hardships that I could scarcely contemplate before coming here.   I needed to see people with nothing dance because life was so good.   So now here I am in the ‘Haven of Peace,’ as this city’s name translates from Arabic.   Looking back, with my departure from Africa becoming more and more of a reality, I realize that my time here passed too quickly.   It has gone by like the blink of an eye, a single, solitary instant where time was frozen in its tracks by an overwhelming array of sounds, smells and colors.   I would give so much to be able to begin anew, to re-experience that first rush of air as I stepped off the airplane, or to hear the rumbling of my motorbike’s engine as I first left the city behind and gazed out at the tarmac road that stretched into the endless African horizon.   But I guess that’s the point.   After all, the feeling of total freedom wouldn’t be nearly as precious if it could be stored away and experienced whenever one wanted.   It has to be searched for earnestly, and can only be enjoyed by a heart that beats with determination, enthusiasm, patience, and above all, hope.   I didn’t realize until quite recently that I made this journey not just to see Africa, but to learn from her as well.   At times she has been a stern, almost overwhelming teacher—I long ago lost count of the number of nights that I went to bed, my body racked with pain and fatigue, wondering how I would summon the strength to face the rising sun—but that’s only because the secrets that she guards are so important.   This stage of the journey is almost over.   Soon I’ll be a pedestrian again, and not long after that, I will find myself on an entirely new continent.   However, I’ve seen what I came to see, and I learned what I needed to learn, so I can depart with peace in my heart.   But I will definitely, definitely, be back.