[ NOTE: I'VE STITCHED TOGETHER ALL THE BITS AND PIECES OF THE STORY THAT APPEAR HERE INTO A SINGLE COMPREHENSIVE NARRATIVE THAT APPEARS ON PAGE TWO OF THIS THREAD. ]
Those two threads had just about run their course, when, in response to a question, I made a very long post telling a large chunk of the story of my travels in West Africa in 1981, looking for the African roots of the earliest American banjo playing techniques. I was encouraged to repost this as an independent thread. It's also become a blog on my home-page.
DOGON CLAWHAMMER:
The genesis of my inquiry began in the 1970s. I had seen a coffeehouse performance by the brilliant Eric Frandsen from New York who, when he got out his banjo to play a few fiddle tunes clawhammer style, called it "the only original American instrument". Afterwards, I went over to him and said, "Come on, Eric, surely you know the banjo comes from Africa." and he (thinking fast on his feet) said, "Well, what I really meant was, that style of playing, clawhammer, was purely an American invention, and is the oldest American banjo style." I accepted that as true, but then wondered, if clawhammer was the oldest American banjo style, then how was it played in Africa before that.
In 1981, I received a few thousand dollars in unexpected retroactive pay from my job as a researcher in current affairs radio when a settlement of a prolonged contract negotiation eliminated my category and bumped me into a higher paid category. I phoned my wife and told her, and one of us - I don't remember which - said "Let's get plane tickets and go to Africa before we just fritter the money away on daily expenses", and so we did. After that we had hardly any money for anything else on the trip, so it was the lowest rent travel you could imagine.
Since I had this idea of trying to find out how the banjo ancestors were played, we planned the trip around countries that seemed to be likely locations - Gambia, Senegal, Mali, Upper Volta (now Burkina-Fasso) and Ivory Coast. We thought Gambia would be the best place to look, but unfortunately a coup/civil war broke out days before we were to go there, so we scrapped that part of the trip.
Interestingly, carrying a banjo (the little fretless in my lower avatar picture), slung across my back with no case, that I was very happy to oblige any request for playing anywhere at any time, rapidly made me a sort of celebrity. Crowds would literally gather around me on the street and get me to play - often the children would dance. This gave me lots of opportunities to ask people if they knew anyone who played similar instruments. The answer always was the same - you have to go way off into the countryside to find that. (The people in the cities were far more likely to play electric guitar!) Though I asked far and wide, no one seemed able to direct me to anyone who played any similar instruments.
Cutting a long story short, we eventually made our way to the Dogon people in the extremely remote Falaise of Bandiagara in Eastern Mali. The Dogon lived a remote and isolated life by choice - they moved to this remote cliff side centuries ago to avoid slave traders. Their houses are built right into the side of the cliff. The cliff has a huge overhang, so anyone approaching from above would look down and see nothing. The houses are so high up on the cliff that anyone approaching from below would be seen by the Dogon long before they could climb the cliff, and the Dogon could disappear into the many caves that dot the cliff side. The Dogon are the only people in that region who were never conquered by any of the many empires that have held that territory. Adding to their security was their (untrue) reputation as cannibals, and the fact that they file their teeth into points, giving them a rather fearsome appearance, which kept their neighbours rather intimidated by them.
Inasmuch as the Dogon would have been unlikely to have been slaves in America in any great numbers, if at all, it was the last place I expected to find what I was looking for. When we arrived at the village of Kane-Kombole, where our 12 year old guide lived, I was asked to play banjo for the village chief, who seemed singularly unimpressed, and then for the village children, who gathered around me and danced, each one doing a solo in turn. It was a remarkable moment for me, playing for these children, who stood facing me in a line, holding their bodies completely erect, and dancing in perfect unison, seemingly moving only their feet and legs - it was as though their bodies just floated stationary above their legs. One after another, they advanced one step, danced a more complicated solo, and then stepped back into line. The sound of the bare feet in the sand was the most beautiful and subtle percussion one could wish for.
Then, after dark, while I was still playing for the children, from between two huts, emerged a fellow carrying a skin covered gourd with an impaled round neck strung with two strings knotted on to the neck. He wiggled the knots on the string to get in tune with me, and began to play along. I was floored. He was using the same hand movements as I was - clawhammer. I was playing "Reuben" which I had read was originally a West African tune that was still current in the region. He had no trouble at all playing it with me. (The video embedded below, "Clawhammer Kona" is my best attempt at imitating how he played.)
After the children finished dancing, we played together for several hours, sometimes him following me, sometimes me following him. Our guide had long since disappeared to hang out with his friends, and we had no common language. The entire conversation was conducted in music.
It was an experience that has profoundly affected my life, my world view, and my relationship with the banjo.
The next morning, with our young guide, I sought him out, hoping to buy his instrument from him, but alas, he had left the village to go to some distant market. I never saw him again. The instrument that I was able to obtain was actually that of a young friend of our guide, and is a child sized instrument - about half size. It only had one string, and when I asked why, it was explained to me that that was all he had, if he had had more string, he would have put one or two more strings on it. The string was fishing line. When I got home I added two more strings from string that was as close to the original as I could find - postal chord.
I never encountered another banjo like instrument on the rest of our travels, despite asking everywhere we went. I did, though, have an opportunity to show the instrument I brought back to Eric Frandsen a few years later, at Montreal's Yellow Door Coffeehouse, and demonstrate how it was played clawhammer style. I don't know whether or not he actually remembered our earlier conversation that had sent me off on this quest, but it was still cool to be able to bring the conversation full circle.
As far as I can tell, I was the first person to find clawhammer in Africa and recognize it as such. There may have been others before me, but I haven't heard about them yet.
This is the instrument I brought back, the Kona, being played by me, doing my best imitation of how I saw it played on the Falaise of Bandiagara in Mali in 1981:
THAT is fantastic! And it doesn't matter if there WAS some obscure musicologist before you, because YOU made the discovery all on your own. I LOVE the way you that little baby African banjo. It sounded like "Rollin' and Tumblin" when you started singing! Just fantastic Marc!
That whole story is quite a demonstration of personal tenacity, musical talent and an educational lesson for all of us.. You are truly one of a kind Marc. Thanks for this.
Thank you for sharing your story, Marc. Your experience is an important part of our growing view of West African plucked spike lute traditions and the banjo. As one who has been more recently to Gambia and Senegal (2006, 2008) to study the Jola ekonting and Manjak bunchundo, it's great to know people like you and your story as part of this tradition of travel and learning.
Mark this is a great story! what an adventure! I have something to add - My parents and little sister lived in Banjul Gambia back from 1994 to 1998 when my dad was hired as chief pilot for the national airline "Gambia Airways" back when President Sir Dawda Jawarah was still the president before the military coup happened ( which unfortunately has now practically destroyed a once stable, but poor and peaceful country ) I during that time was still living in the states going to college ( I never finished ) and frankly was too busy to bother with taking my folks up on the several offers to go over and visit. For the first time as a young man Partying and the like, I was free of the scourge of my parents and bratty little sister and was perfectly content with staying stateside and just having fun..anyways thats another story. My sister actually learned the local language some ( I think the main tribe in The Gambia was called "Mandinka" or something like that. My parents lived in a part of Banjul "The Gambia" called "Serekunda" which was where most of the foreigners lived. I remember my dad telling me that my mom had developed a fierce reputation as barterer at the local flea market over time...Unfortunately I never went to visit...this has now become a huge regret of mine :(
My dad had an assigned chouffer an Islamic guy named Massani who drove my dad and family all over the place. My dad was invited one day to travel down the river Gambia into "the interior" to visit Massanis ancestral village. It was almost a full days drive and they took a car load of coca cola in cans for the whole village. When they got there, my dad got to sit wit the men and the chief in a big circle and I remember seeing in the pics that the folks were playing this gourd instruments of various sizes. At the time I didnt play banjo...didnt have any idea what I was looking at. Anyways next time I go home to visit my mom, I am going to look for the pics to post them. But I sw the pic of the "Kona" I just marveled because my folks bought back a similar type instrument from the Gambia. I dont remember what its called, but its about the same size as the one you have and looks exactly the same...its sitting on the mantle in my moms house. I thought it was like a toy or a copy of some other larger instrument but it has like 3 strings and you can actually play it just like this one you have. I have to remember to post a pic and video of it when I go to visit my mom.
Marc, your writing and video have captured our musical roots in a way we could barely have imagined. Thanks so much for letting inspiration take over...
Here's an attached picture of me playing the banjo for a group of Dogon who were on their way to market, at the top of the cliff, shortly before we began our descent on a hidden rocky trail that was like a twisted and gnarled natural narrow staircase of stone. (Click the photo to enlarge.) Unfortunately, my encounter with the Dogon musician, and the dancing children, took place after dark (the only source of light was the moon) and it was too dark for any pictures to be taken.
wow what an edaventure....this is great...it was back in the 80´s when you went?
The "80's" is perhaps a bit broad. The month of August 1981 would just about cover it, I think. We covered a heck of a lot of ground in a month, now that I look back on it. Four countries - an average of one week in each. I think we spent more time in Mali than the other countries though. Just getting to Dogon country was quite a treck - and involved a full day's walk from the town of Bandiagara to the cliff, starting at 5 am, over the Southern tip of the Sahara Desert. It was literally desert on one side of the trail, and scrubby vegetation on the other side. The Sahara was expanding Southward at the time, and its Southern edge has likely moved somewhat further South by now.
In general, what did the local people think of a North American? What were they curious about? What did they want to know about the banjo you'd brought with you?
In general, what did the local people think of a North American? What were they curious about? What did they want to know about the banjo you'd brought with you?
These are hard questions to answer in a vacuum - so you're forcing me to tell more details of the story. Thanks for the push!
We were actually a group of six white people traveling together into and out of Dogon country - travelers who had come together out of convenience, three Canadians and three Americans. Other than my wife and I, the other 4 were in Africa on missions with the Peace Corps or CUSO (a sort Canadian equivalent) ... they were on vacation from their jobs and were going to visit the Dogon because the Dogon are quite famous - a visit to the great Falaise of Bandiagara, the enormous cliff where the Dogon live is one of those "100 top places you should see before you die". The Dogon are a protected people, however. You need a permit to travel there (or at least you did then).
When we went to get our permits at the government office in the town of Bandiagara - which is quite far from the cliff - a small walled village of mostly stone buildings that looked to be centuries old - the office was filled with people who wanted to get permits to go somewhere - most were locals who had business here or there. I got the form and wrote down my occupation as "musician-researcher". After a little while of standing at the end of a very long line in the crowded room, the man behind the counter loudly asked who the musician-researcher was. I identified myself, and they had me jump the line and come right up to get my travel permit. (I still have it somewhere.) So being a musician- researcher gave me a status that I hadn't anticipated, and I was treated with considerably more respect all of a sudden.
Now, the Dogon are not unfamiliar with tourists - though the usual way (and the only legal way) to visit them was on a government guided tour, where you are taken past the villages, get to take pictures, and move on. This was not our idea of actually visiting the Dogon people. We had been advised by some German travelers we had met at a hostel where we had slept on the floor, 20 to a room for $2 a night, and they had clued us in on what to do. They suggested that we try to find a Dogon child guide in Bandiagara village who would guide us to his own home village, where we could stay the night. I drew a map under their guidance of the villages nor on the printed maps that were possible to visit, even though they were not on the government tour - (which was at the opposite end of the cliff), and how to get there.
When we got to Bandiagara, we asked around if anyone knew any Dogon children who could act as guides, and everyone told us that there were no Dogon in Bandiagara, and that the Dogon never came there. We were beginning to despair, when we were approached on the street by a skinny little kid in T-shirt and shorts, who said (in the only English that he knew) "Hey meester - what ees your beezness? My beezness eez guide!" And so we had found our guide - Ibrahim - who got us to hire his friend, Omar, as well, because Omar was the son of a village chief and would be able to get us into places that we would otherwise be forbidden to enter. I wondered about the veracity of this claim, but it did later indeed turn out to be true.
Since our guides spoke no English, but they and I had a common language of French, which no one else in our group spoke, I became the unofficial, but very necessary translation link between first, the guides, and then, the other Dogon that we met - and the rest of our little tribe of Toubabous (white people). Since I had a common language with many people in this former French colony, and because I played music everywhere we went, I was treated with a greater degree of respect and interest than the rest of the people in our group - so I can't give you an objective answer about what the people thought of a North American. I was given a sort of celebrity status - I was even named the 'chief' of the group of white people by the guides for the purposes of greeting village chiefs wherever we went, and I admit, I rather enjoyed this degree of respect that was rather more than anything I have ever experienced at home. The other people in our group were not so enamored with the special treatment I got wherever we went - but they needed me as a translator so they put up with it.
In terms of what people were interested in about my instrument - mostly they wanted me to play and sing - especially to the village children (and each village had its own distinctive dance step that the children did). the Dogon musician I met that night was indeed interested to examine my instrument and try it out. He was most intrigued by the geared tuning pegs, that he examined at some length.
One of the things that the Dogon are famous for is their knowledge of cosmology - their mythology includes stars that are not visible from Earth without a telescope but are indeed there. In fact, their 'creation story" has them as descendants of 8 ancestors who came to earth from the invisible star that is a twin companion star to Sirius - the "Dog Star" - the brightest star in the Southern Hemisphere night sky. I was introduced to the details of Dogon mythology in an interesting and unique way. When we went to Omar's village (where his father was chief) the guides became quite excited over the fact that I spoke both French and English. Why? Because a few years earlier a white woman had arrived in a helicopter and left them a big book that, as they put it, told the whole story of the Dogon people. The only problem was that the book was in English, and nobody there was able to read it. They wanted me to translate it for them.
I was somewhat intimidate at the prospect, until they brought out the book. It was indeed big - in the sense that it was quite tall - but it was quite narrow, in the sense that it had very few pages. In fact, it was a catalogue from an art exhibition of Dogon art at the Guggenheim Museum in New York, that indeed had a 4 page summary of the Dogon mythology of their own beginnings as a people. So, as before, they brought all the children of the village around, this time, not to dance (although they did that too) but to hear the white man tell them the story of their people. I read and translated for them the story of their 8 ancestors who came to Earth from a distant star, and arrived at this remote cliff and chased away the tiny people that lived in the caves there (the Tellem) and founded a people that were now 100,00 strong living on that vast cliff-side (and in recent years had expanded onto the valley floor at the foot of the cliff). The children listened in rapt attention. And several adults too, who seemed amused and entertained by a story that they knew well. The children though seemed to be hearing this for the first time. So I asked one of the adults why this was so. he said "Oh, we don't usually learn these stories until we are much older." Thankfully, no one seemed to think I was breaking any taboo by telling the adult initiation stories to the young children.
[I recently went to another exhibition stunning exhibition of Dogon art in Paris, where I learned that the Dogon were indeed founded by 8 original leaders (4 couples), who had come form not nearly as far away as another star, who led their people there and chased the Tellem Pygmys away from. Tellem artwork is still to be found in the caves. It's amazing what you can learn at art exhibitions.]
It was from one of the children that came to listen to the stories that I bought the instrument that I brought back. I paid him what he asked for it - the equivalent of about a dollar. Ibrahim chastised me for not bargaining, telling me i could have had it for much less money than that. I told him that to me it was worth far more than that.
Because of the Dogon arcane knowledge of cosmology, one of the Peace Corps guys kept wanting to ask people about their knowledge of the stars. I, of course, had to act as translator. But these conversations were not easy, because the question would come in English which I had to translate into French, and Ibrahim would translate into Dogon. And then the answer would come back though the same steps. I noticed right away that a lot was lost in translation when people spoke in paragraphs, so we had our conversations one sentence at a time.
We would ask, "Can you tell me what the moon is made of?" "Can you tell me what the stars are made of?"- questions like that. And the answers that came back were always the same - "Well I don't know, you have to ask somebody older - or somebody with more specialized knowledge for one reason or another" ... and then we would ask where we can find such a person, and we would be led to somebody older or more specialized. When we got to people of a certain age, we needed to add yet another layer of translation, because these people spoke "Old Dogon" which Ibrahim did not speak. Eventually they told us we had to ask the griot (the resident carrier of the local oral history) - but he was not there. So it seemed that we would never get the answers to our questions. Until, that is, we were leaving Dogon country and were climbing up the cliff - which is much harder than climbing down!
As we were nearing a very isolated village high on the cliff - a village that no tourists were allowed to enter - my wife, Rosemary became violently ill with very serious nausea. Here's where Omar showed his special value. This was his grandfather's village - he was chief - and Omar could get us in.
That this was a village that did not see tourists became immediately apparent. Whereas in the other villages the children had quickly gravitated to us, with a kind of easy going friendly curiosity, here the children looked at us as though we were from Mars. Perhaps they had seen white people before, but clearly not very often, and not under such friendly circumstances. Well here we were, and Rosemary began to throw up. Well it seemed like the whole village wanted to gather around and watch the white lady puke. Ibrahim had the presence of mind to suggest that I play music, which I did. And as I walked away playing the banjo, like the Pied Piper of Hamlin, I led the whole village away from my suffering wife.
Later, after much music and singing, the children did warm up to me and dropped those suspicious looks. And once Rosemary felt better we were brought to meet the village chief, Omar's grandfather. Now here was really the oldest looking man we had yet met in Dogon country - thin, tough and wizened. He sat and held court and we talked - with myself and Ibrahim as intermediaries. Well, naturally, with such an old man before us, out came the cosmology questions.
"Can you tell us what the stars are made of?" "Well, I don't know what the stars are made of, but I can tell you this: They're not really small - they only look small because they're so far away."
"Can you tell us what the moon is made of?" "Well I don't know what the moon is made of, you'll have to ask those who've been there."
And at this point we think we're really getting to the heart of Dogon mythology, and ask "Where can we find those who've been there?"
He looked at us, incredulously: "Why, in America, of course!"
I remember your picture with the little banjo from Ken Perlman's book, but now I realize you are an adventurer and explorer of the first order......well done sir, well done.
Hey there Mr. Bones ("Dry" to those who know him personally), and others who've commented: Thank you for your interest and kind words. Also, thank you for reviving this thread, since I had been picking at a writing a third long post, and this has spurred me on to complete that task.
Here then is the third "chapter" in this saga. It covers some of the stuff left out and glossed over by that phrase "to make a long story short", above.
CHAPTER III: Arrival in Dakar, The train from Dakar to Bamako, and the road beyond:
We arrived in Dakar, Senegal, site of the most westerly large airport in Africa, early in the morning after a midnight flight from New York. The first thing that struck me upon emerging from the plane was that the air seemed thicker than I was used to – it felt heavy on my skin, and there was a faint odour of something burning far away at all times. The next thing that struck me was that the tarmac and the airport seemed to be filled with soldiers in camouflage carrying Kalashnikovs. I don’t know if this was because of the coup in neighbouring Gambia a few days before, or if it was just par for the course. I’ve travelled enough in Africa since then that I don’t pay much attention to the ubiquitous machine gun toting soldiers any more – but I wasn’t expecting it then, so it made me very uneasy.
My memories of our few days in Dakar are somewhat vague - the effects of jet lag and the first of several bouts of dysentery are probably responsible for that. The city was very French - it looked like a transplanted piece of Paris – except populated by French speaking Africans. Being from Montreal, and speaking reasonably good French, put me at somewhat of an advantage over the plane load of mostly Afro-Americans who had intended to follow the Alex Hailey Roots route into the Gambia – a tiny English speaking enclave surrounded on three sides by Senegal. But the recent coup had prevented them – and us from pursuing their chosen route. So they wandered about Dakar a bit at loose ends, and unable to communicate very effectively with the local population. We wandered around Dakar too, but quickly struck up conversations, largely due to the little banjo slung over my back that people kept asking me to play. And whenever I played, people gathered around to listen, clap rhythms and sometimes dance.
At one point I was playing in an empty lot and a fairly large crowd gathered in a circle, while people took turns going into the middle of the circle and dancing. It seemed to be a showing off your hot footwork kind of a thing. While I was playing, I could feel someone come up behind me and try to reach into my pocket and extract my wallet. I kept on playing, but turned around and glared at him. He backed off, and slunk away. When it was over, and I mentioned to the fellow standing next to me what had happened, he remarked that the pickpocket was very lucky I had done that. Had I instead denounced him to the crowd, they would have cut his hand off: my first taste of the harshness that life sometimes assumes in Africa.
That evening we discovered just how dark a city can be with no street-lights. We had gone out to eat at a restaurant, which was hard enough to find with no street signs, but getting back to our hotel with no overhead lights was an even greater challenge. The stars in the sky were clear and brightly visible, but the street in front of us seemed to disappear into profound darkness. Eventually we became used to navigating by moonlight and the occasional glow coming from a window.
We stayed in Dakar a few days and then headed by train to Bamako, the capital of Mali. The train was old and rickety, with a black steam locomotive that looked like it could have been made in the nineteenth century. It was a classic design that conjured up the toy trains of my childhood. The price of first class tickets was only marginally more than second class, so we sprang for them, on the understanding that we would be guaranteed a seat that way, and not risk having to stand.
Sure enough, the first class car was pretty empty when the train pulled out, and we sat in comfort. But the train made many stops along the way, to pick up and discharge passengers and freight. At each stop, aside from buying food trough the window from the many women and children who lined the side of the train with stuff to sell at every stop, we noted that more and more people got on in the second class cars – and then made their way through the train to the first class car to deposit their luggage there, filling the empty seats. And the luggage they deposited in the first class car was not just suitcases. There were boxes and boxes of eggs, as well as crate after crate of live chickens, along with a couple of goats tied up in the aisles. The passengers went back to ride in the second class cars, while we were left in the first class car along with the livestock.
To pass the time, I sometimes played my banjo on the train, and people would come and stand near my seat and listen. More than one pointed at me and said, “Bob Marley!” and then chuckled. When I put on my harmonica rack, they decided that I was “Bob Dylan” instead. The Bobs, Marley and Dylan, were the only non-African musicians I ever heard referred to on that trip.
At one point, when I was playing a tiny man came dancing down the aisle, and danced beside me for a very considerable amount of time – until he got off the train, in fact. By tiny, I mean that the top of his head came up to around my waist. But his shortness was not because he was a midget or dwarf or pygmy. It was because he had no legs at all – just the upper part of his body. His incredible dancing – and it really was good – was done entirely on his hands, upon which he wore a thick pair of gloves – like sneakers. He was truly a sight to behold – a wonder at dancing on his hands!
In the middle of that night, the train came to a complete stop in the middle of nowhere, out in the countryside, in total darkness. And there we sat for hours, with no indication as to why we had stopped or when we would be under way again. But way off in the distance, we could see a flickering glowing light from which point we could hear music. Rumour on the train had it that the crew had all left to attend some sort of festivity going on there. As curious as we were to see it for ourselves, we were afraid to get off the train and go look, lest the train should take off with no warning just as it had stopped, leaving us behind. In the morning, another old steam locomotive arrived, and was attached in front of the original locomotive, and we were on our way to Bamako again. We never did find out whether the purpose stop was to let the crew go to the festivities, or whether the festivities just happened to be conveniently near where some mechanical failure had forced a stop.
Because of the unscheduled long stop, instead of arriving in Bamako in the daytime, we arrived around midnight, and the city was all shut down and dark. We had no place to stay, but a taxi driver at the train station said he knew a place for us. He dropped us off at a bordello, where we were permitted to spend the night in the courtyard. The next day, we moved to the Catholic Mission – quite a contrast!
Wandering the streets of Bamako with my fretless banjo, I again found myself to be an object of curiosity, and I was frequently asked to play, whereupon crowds would gather around, and children would dance. After four days in Bamako, the limit one was allowed to stay at the Catholic Mission, we continued on our way to Dogon country. We took a bus, packed like a sardine can, out of Bamako, that left from the modern 4 block downtown district, across a six lane bridge, that seemed to be the beginning of a wide modern highway, only to find that there was a two lane (at most) dirt road on the other side of the river.
It was a long and uncomfortable ride to the unpleasantly insect infested smelly and dirty town of Mopti. While we were happy to get off the bus, we were just as happy to leave Mopti the next day, this time by Bashé – an open pickup truck, the back of which was crammed with standing passengers. The driver, a huge and imposing man, kept laughing at me and insisting I keep playing music while we waited for the truck to be full. He wasn’t willing to leave until then. On the road, he amused himself by chasing dogs with his truck, very clearly and deliberately running one over when he caught up with it. Then he burst into laughing again. That was our second taste of the harshness of African life.
Ultimately, we arrived at the town of Bandiagara, the end of the road. We stayed at a hotel called the Bar Kansaye, run by old man Mamadou Kansaye. It was an old stone house, with beds made from bundles of twigs tied together to form a sort of mattress. They were surprisingly comfortable and springy, especially given that they looked like they would be excruciatingly uncomfortable. The bar itself, was just a stone counter in a dirt floored courtyard, with a few warm bottles of wine, and goats and chickens wandering around. We stayed there a few days, arranging for our actual visit to Dogon country, a day’s walk away, and once again I was called upon to play my banjo, garnering all the free drinks I could consume by playing at Mamadou’s request in the bar.
One night in the bar I was asked to play by soldier in uniform, who had been talking about some problem he was having to old man Kansaye, and was obviously agitated and upset over something, though I didn’t understand the language they were speaking. In truth, I wasn’t so much asked to play as I was more or less ordered to do so by the agitated soldier. I played the song Needed Time*, and sang it in English, a language he didn’t understand. I was shocked to find that I bought him to tears: a real testament to the universal expressiveness of music. Our cultures and backgrounds couldn’t have been more different, but the power of music seamlessly bridged the gap.
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* There's a video of me playing that song, albeit on a different banjo, in the video portion of my home page.
Here are a couple of photographs of Dogon villages (one on the cliffside itself, the other at the foot of the cliff). Click on them to enlarge:
Right now my first graders are studying "Journeys," and one of the stories we read about is the true story of Bill Pinkney, the first African American to sail by himself around the world. He named his boat, "Commitment" and defined it as a "powerful promise." In pursuing your dreams--in your case your desire to discover banjo roots--you encountered unforeseen problems, dangers and pitfalls, as well as gained priceless memories of humanity at our best. You made a commitment and carried it out. The amazing thing is that you actually found what you were looking for-- both the African instrument and the clawhammer style of playing it. It's a great story. I'll be re-reading it, like a good book where it's even better the second and third time through.
They primarily sell Djembes all made in West Africa, but also sell other instruments made in the region. The instrument above also seems to match your description pretty closely. Take a look, there is pretty good picture too.
They also have other stringed instruments from West Africa in their "other instruments" section.
Thank you very much Janet, Paula, Dan and Scott. I've taken the various bits and pieces of the story as told in this thread, and stitched them together into a single chronological narrative, that still needs a bit of editing before it's ready to be posted. This thread has allowed me (encouraged me) to finally write the article I have intended to write for quite some time. I'll be posting that here, I hope before the end of the week. [It's on another computer, and I am out of town for much of this week.]
Well, I've stitched together the various bits and pieces that appear above that make up this story and I've edited them into a unified whole, with a few little new incidental bits thrown in. So here's the whole thing, all in one place.
[I think I may submit this to the Banjo Newsletter (where Ken Perlman had written a short column about this in 1984) as an article: Whadaya think? Should I?]
HOW I STUMBLED ACROSS THE ROOTS OF AMERICAN BANJO PLAYING WHILE STUMBLING THROUGH WEST AFRICA IN 1981
The genesis of my inquiry began in the 1970s. I had seen a coffeehouse performance by the brilliant Eric Frandsen from New York who, when he got out his banjo to play a few fiddle tunes clawhammer style, called it "the only original American instrument". Afterwards, I went over to him and said, "Come on, Eric, surely you know the banjo comes from Africa." and he (thinking fast on his feet) said, "Well, what I really meant was, that style of playing, clawhammer, was purely an American invention, and is the oldest American banjo style." I accepted that as true, but then wondered, if clawhammer was the oldest American banjo style, then how was it played in Africa before that.
In 1981, I received a few thousand dollars in unexpected retroactive pay from my job as a researcher in current affairs radio when a settlement of a prolonged contract negotiation eliminated my category and bumped me into a higher paid category. I phoned my wife and told her, and one of us - I don't remember which - said "Let's get plane tickets and go to Africa before we just fritter the money away on daily expenses", and so we did. After that we had hardly any money for anything else on the trip, so it was the lowest rent travel you could imagine.
Since I had this idea of trying to find out how the banjo ancestors were played, we planned the trip around countries that seemed to be likely locations - Gambia, Senegal, Mali, Upper Volta (now Burkina-Fasso) and Ivory Coast. We thought Gambia would be the best place to look, but unfortunately a coup/civil war broke out days before we were to go there, so we scrapped that part of the trip.
CULTURE SHOCK IN DAKAR
In August 1981, we arrived in Dakar, Senegal, site of the most westerly large airport in Africa, early in the morning after a midnight flight from New York. The first thing that struck me upon emerging from the plane was that the air seemed thicker than I was used to – it felt heavy on my skin, and there was a faint odour of something burning far away at all times. The next thing that struck me was that the tarmac and the airport seemed to be filled with soldiers in camouflage carrying Kalashnikovs. I don’t know if this was because of the coup in neighbouring Gambia a few days before, or if it was just par for the course. I’ve travelled enough in Africa since then that I don’t pay much attention to the ubiquitous machine gun toting soldiers any more – but I wasn’t expecting it then, so it made me very uneasy.
My memories of our few days in Dakar are somewhat vague - the effects of jet lag and the first of several bouts of dysentery are probably responsible for that. The city was very French - it looked like a transplanted piece of Paris – except populated by French speaking Africans. Being from Montreal, and speaking reasonably good French, put me at somewhat of an advantage over the plane load of mostly African-Americans who had intended to follow the Alex Hailey Roots route into the Gambia – a tiny English speaking enclave surrounded on three sides by Senegal. But the recent coup had prevented them, and us, from pursuing that chosen route. So they wandered about Dakar a bit at loose ends, unable to communicate very effectively with the local population. We wandered around Dakar too, but quickly struck up conversations, largely due to the little fretless banjo slung over my back that people kept asking me to play. And whenever I played, people gathered around to listen, clap rhythms and sometimes dance.
Much to my surprise, carrying a banjo slung across my back with no case, upon which I was very happy to oblige any request for playing anywhere at any time, rapidly made me a sort of celebrity. Crowds would literally gather around me on the street and get me to play - often the children would dance. This gave me lots of opportunities to ask people if they knew anyone who played similar instruments. The answer always was the same - you have to go way off into the countryside to find that. (The people in the cities were far more likely to play electric guitar!) Though I asked far and wide, no one seemed able to direct me to anyone who played any similar instruments.
At one point I was playing in an empty lot and a fairly large crowd gathered in a circle, while people took turns going into the middle of the circle and dancing. It seemed to be a ‘showing off your hot footwork’ kind of a thing. While I was playing, I could feel someone come up behind me and try to reach into my pocket and extract my wallet. I kept on playing, but turned around and glared at him. He backed off, and slunk away. When it was over, and I mentioned what had happened to the fellow standing next to me, he remarked that the pickpocket was very lucky I had done that. Had I instead denounced him to the crowd, they would have cut his hand off: my first taste of the harshness that life sometimes assumes in Africa.
That evening we discovered just how dark a city can be with no street-lights. We had gone out to eat at a restaurant, which was hard enough to find with no street signs, but getting back to our hotel with no overhead lights was an even greater challenge. The stars in the sky were clear and brightly visible, but the street in front of us seemed to disappear into profound darkness. Eventually we became used to navigating by moonlight and the occasional glow coming from a window.
THE TRAIN TO BAMAKO, A DAY AND NIGHT TO REMEMBER
We stayed in Dakar a few days and then headed by train to Bamako, the capital of Mali. The train was old and rickety, with a black steam locomotive that looked like it could have been made in the nineteenth century. It was a classic design that conjured up the toy trains of my childhood. The price of first class tickets was only marginally more than second class, so we sprang for them, on the understanding that we would be guaranteed a seat that way, and not risk having to stand.
Sure enough, the first class car was pretty empty when the train pulled out, and we sat in comfort. But the train made many stops along the way, to pick up and discharge passengers and freight. At each stop, aside from buying food through the window from the many women and children who lined the side of the train with stuff to sell at every stop, we noted that more and more people got on in the second class cars – and then made their way through the train to the first class car to deposit their luggage there, filling the empty seats. And the luggage they deposited in the first class car was not just suitcases. There were boxes and boxes of eggs, as well as crate after crate of live chickens, along with a couple of goats tied up in the aisles. The passengers went back to ride in the second class cars, while we were left in the first class car along with the livestock.
To pass the time, I periodically played my banjo on the train, and people would come and stand near my seat and listen. More than one pointed at me and said, “Bob Marley!” and then chuckled. When I put on my harmonica rack, they decided that I was “Bob Dylan” instead. The Bobs, Marley and Dylan, were the only non-African musicians I ever heard referred to on that trip.
At one point, when I was playing a tiny man came dancing down the aisle, and danced beside me for a very considerable amount of time – until he got off the train, in fact. By tiny, I mean that the top of his head came up to around my waist. But his shortness was not because he was a midget or dwarf or pygmy. It was because he had no legs at all – just the upper part of his body. His incredible dancing – and it really was good – was done entirely on his hands, upon which he wore a thick pair of gloves – kind of like sneakers for his hands. He was truly a sight to behold – a wonder at dancing on his hands!
In the middle of that night, the train came to a complete stop in the middle of nowhere, out in the countryside, in total darkness. And there we sat for hours, with no indication as to why we had stopped or when we would be under way again. But way off in the distance, we could see a flickering glowing light from which point we could hear music. Rumour on the train had it that the crew had all left to attend some sort of festivity going on there. As curious as we were to see it for ourselves, we were afraid to get off the train and go look, lest the train should take off with no warning just as it had stopped, leaving us behind. In the morning, another old steam locomotive arrived, and was attached in front of the original locomotive, and we were on our way to Bamako again. We never did find out whether the purpose stop was to let the crew go to the festivities, or whether the festivities just happened to be conveniently near where some mechanical failure had forced a stop.
Because of the unscheduled long stop, instead of arriving in Bamako in the daytime, we arrived around midnight, and the city was all shut down and dark. We had no place to stay, but a taxi driver at the train station said he knew a place for us. He dropped us off at a bordello, where we were permitted to spend the night in the courtyard. The next day, we moved to the ‘two dollar a night sleep in your sleeping bag on the floor’ dormitory at the Catholic Mission – quite a contrast!
FROM BAMAKO TO BANDIAGARA
Wandering the streets of Bamako with my fretless banjo, I again found myself to be an object of curiosity, and I was frequently asked to play, whereupon crowds would gather around, and children would dance. After four days in Bamako (the limit one was allowed to stay at the Catholic Mission) we continued on our way, heading to Dogon country on the remote Falaise of Bandiagara. We took a bus, packed like a sardine can, out of Bamako, that left from the modern 4 block downtown district, across a brand new modern six lane bridge, that seemed to be the beginning of a wide modern highway, only to find that there was a two lane (in places, only one lane) dirt road on the other side of the river.
It was a long and uncomfortable ride to the unpleasantly insect infested smelly and dirty town of Mopti. While we were happy to get off the bus, we were just as happy to leave Mopti the next day, this time by Bashé – an open pickup truck, the back of which was crammed with standing passengers. The driver, a huge and imposing man, kept laughing at me and insisting I keep playing music while we waited for the truck to be full. He wasn’t willing to leave until then. On the road, he amused himself by chasing dogs with his truck, very clearly and deliberately running one over when he caught up with it. Then he burst into laughing again. That was our second taste of the harshness of African life.
Ultimately, we arrived at the tiny town of Bandiagara - a small walled village of mostly stone buildings that looked to be centuries old – quite literally at the end of the road. We stayed at a hotel called the Bar Kansaye, run by old man Mamadou Kansaye. It was an old stone house, with beds made from bundles of twigs tied together to form a sort of mattress. They were surprisingly comfortable and springy, especially given that they looked like they would be excruciatingly uncomfortable, which they were not. The bar itself, was just a stone counter in a dirt floored courtyard, with a few warm bottles of wine, and goats and chickens wandering around. We stayed there a few days, arranging for our actual visit to Dogon country, an enormous cliffside a day’s walk away, and once again I was called upon to play my banjo, garnering all the free drinks I could consume by playing at Mamadou’s request in the bar.
One night in the bar I was asked to play by soldier in uniform, who had been talking about some problem he was having to old man Kansaye, and was obviously agitated and upset over something, though I didn’t understand the language they were speaking. In truth, I wasn’t so much asked to play as I was more or less ordered to do so by the agitated soldier. I played the song ‘Needed Time’, and sang it in English, a language he didn’t understand. I was shocked to find that I bought him to tears: a real testament to the universal expressiveness of music. Our cultures and backgrounds couldn’t have been more different, but the power of music seamlessly bridged the gap.
TO DOGON COUNTRY
We were actually a group of six white people traveling together into and out of Dogon country - travellers who had come together out of convenience, three Canadians and three Americans. Other than my wife and I, the other 4 were in Africa on missions with the Peace Corps or CUSO (a sort Canadian equivalent). At this point in time they were on vacation from their jobs and were going to visit the Dogon people because the Dogon are quite famous - a visit to the great Falaise of Bandiagara, that enormous cliff where the Dogon live, is routinely on those lists of "100 top places you should see before you die". The Dogon are a protected people, however. You need a permit to travel there (or at least you did then).
When we went to get our permits at the government office in the town of Bandiagara - which is quite far from the cliff with the same name - the office was filled with people who wanted to get permits to go somewhere. Most were locals who had business here or there. I got the form and wrote down my occupation as "musician-researcher". After a little while of standing at the end of a very long line in the crowded room, the man behind the counter loudly asked who the musician-researcher was. I identified myself, and they had me jump the line and come right up to get my travel permit. (I still have it somewhere.) So being a musician- researcher gave me a status that I hadn't anticipated, and I was treated with considerably more respect all of a sudden.
The Dogon people are not entirely unfamiliar with tourists - though the usual way (and the only legal way) to visit them was on a government guided tour, where you are taken past the villages, get to take pictures, and move on. This was not our idea of actually visiting the Dogon people. We had been advised by some German travelers we had met at the Catholic Mission in Bamako, and they had clued us in on what to do. They suggested that we try to find a Dogon child guide in Bandiagara village who would guide us to his own home village, where we could stay the night. I drew a map under their guidance of villages that did not appear on the printed maps that were possible to visit (even though they were not on the government tour - which was at the opposite end of the cliff) and how to get to them.
When we first got to Bandiagara, we had asked around if anyone knew any Dogon children who could act as guides, and everyone told us that there were no Dogon in Bandiagara, and that the Dogon never came there. We were beginning to despair, when we were approached on the street by a skinny little kid in T-shirt and shorts, who said (in the only English that he knew) "Hey meester - what ees your beezness? My beezness eez guide!" And so we had found our guide - Ibrahim - who got us to hire his friend, Omar, as well, because Omar was the son of a village chief and would be able to get us into places that we would otherwise be forbidden to enter. I wondered about the veracity of this claim, but it did later indeed turn out to be true.
Since our guides spoke no English, but they and I had a common language of French, which no one else in our group spoke, I became the unofficial, but very necessary translation link between first, the guides, and then, the other Dogon that we met - and the rest of our little tribe of Toubabous (white people). Since I had a common language with many people in this former French colony, and because I played music everywhere we went, I was treated, undeservedly, with a greater degree of respect and interest than the rest of the people in our group. I was even named the 'chief' of the group of white people by the guides for the purposes of greeting village chiefs wherever we went, and I admit, I rather enjoyed this degree of respect that was rather more than anything I have ever experienced at home. The other people in our group were not so enamoured with the special treatment I got wherever we went - but they needed me as a translator so they put up with it.
Just getting to Dogon country was quite a trek - and involved a full day's walk from the town of Bandiagara to the cliff, starting at 5 am, over the southern tip of the Sahara Desert. It was literally desert on one side of the trail, and scrubby vegetation on the other side. The Sahara was expanding southward at the time, and its southern edge has likely moved somewhat further south by now.
THE CLIFF DWELLING DOGON PEOPLE
We eventually made our way to the territory of the Dogon people on the extremely remote Falaise of Bandiagara in Eastern Mali. The Dogon lived a remote and isolated life by choice - they moved to this remote cliff side centuries ago to avoid slave traders. Their houses are built right into the side of the cliff. The cliff has a huge overhang, so anyone approaching from above would look down and see nothing. The houses are so high up on the cliff that anyone approaching from below would be seen by the Dogon long before they could climb the cliff, and the Dogon could disappear into the many caves that dot the cliff side. The Dogon are the only people in that region who were never conquered by any of the many empires that have held that area. Adding to their security was their (untrue) reputation as cannibals, and the fact that they file their teeth into points, giving them a rather fearsome appearance, which kept their neighbours rather intimidated by them.
THE DISCOVERY OF A LIFETIME
Inasmuch as the Dogon would have been unlikely to have been slaves in America in any great numbers, if at all, it was the last place I expected to find what I was looking for – a clue as to how the African banjo ancestor instruments were played. When we arrived at the village of Kane-Kombole, where our 12 year old guide lived, I was asked to play banjo for the village chief, who seemed singularly unimpressed, and then for the village children, who gathered around me and danced, each one doing a solo in turn. It was a remarkable moment for me, playing for these children, who stood facing me in a line, holding their bodies completely erect, and dancing in perfect unison, seemingly moving only their feet and legs - it was as though their bodies just floated stationary above their legs. One after another, they advanced one step, danced a more complicated solo, and then stepped back into line. The sound of the bare feet in the sand was the most beautiful and subtle percussion one could wish for.
Then, after dark, while I was still playing for the children, from between two huts, emerged a fellow carrying a skin-covered gourd with an impaled round neck strung with two strings knotted on to the neck. He wiggled the knots on the string to get in tune with me, and began to play along. I was floored. He was using the same hand movements as I was - clawhammer. I was playing "Reuben" which I had read was originally a West African tune that was still current in the region. He had no trouble at all playing it with me.
After the children finished dancing, we played together for several hours, sometimes him following me, sometimes me following him. He was interested in examining my instrument and trying it out. He was most intrigued by the geared tuning pegs, that he examined at some length. Our guide had long since disappeared to hang out with his friends, and we had no common language. The entire conversation was conducted in music.
It was an experience that has profoundly affected my life, my worldview, and my relationship with the banjo.
The next morning, with our young guide, I sought him out, hoping to buy his instrument from him, but alas, he had left the village to go to some distant market. I never saw him again. The instrument that I was able to obtain was actually that of a young friend of our guide, and is a child-sized instrument - about half size. It only had one string, and when I asked why, it was explained to me that that was all he had, if he had had more string, he would have put one or two more strings on it. The string was fishing line. When I got home I added two more strings from string that was as close to the original as I could find - postal chord.
DOGON MYTHOLOGY
One of the things that the Dogon are famous for is their knowledge of cosmology - their mythology includes stars that are not visible from Earth without a telescope but are indeed there. In fact, their 'creation story" has them as descendants of 8 ancestors who came to earth from the invisible star that is a twin companion star to Sirius - the "Dog Star" - the brightest star in the Southern Hemisphere night sky.
I was introduced to the details of Dogon mythology in an interesting and unique way. When we went to Omar's village (where his father was chief) the guides became quite excited over the fact that I spoke both French and English. Why? Because a few years earlier a white woman had arrived in a helicopter and left them a big book that, as they put it, told the whole story of the Dogon people. The only problem was that the book was in English, and nobody there was able to read it. They wanted me to translate it for them.
I was somewhat intimidated at the prospect, until they brought out the book. It was indeed big - in the sense that it was quite tall - but it was quite narrow, in the sense that it had very few pages. In fact, it was a catalogue from an art exhibition of Dogon art at the Guggenheim Museum in New York, that indeed had a 4-page summary of the Dogon mythology of their own beginnings as a people.
So, as before, they brought all the children of the village around, this time, not to dance (although they did that too) but to hear the white man tell them the story of their people. I read and translated for them the story of their 8 ancestors who came to Earth from a distant star, and arrived at this remote cliff and chased away the tiny people that lived in the caves there (the Tellem) and founded a people that were now 100,00 strong living on that vast cliff-side (and in recent years had expanded onto the valley floor at the foot of the cliff).
The children listened in rapt attention. And several adults too, who seemed amused and entertained by a story that they knew well. The children though seemed to be hearing this for the first time. So I asked one of the adults why this was so. He said "Oh, we don't usually learn these stories until we are much older." Thankfully, no one seemed to think I was breaking any taboo by telling the adult initiation stories to the young children.
I recently went to another stunning exhibition of Dogon art in Paris, where I learned that the Dogon were indeed founded by 8 original leaders (4 couples), who had come from another part of West Africa - not nearly as far away as another star - who had led their people to that cliffside and chased the original inhabitants, the Tellem Pygmys, away. Tellem artwork is still to be found in the caves. It's amazing what you can learn at art exhibitions.
It was from one of the children that came to listen to the stories that I bought the instrument that I brought back. I paid him what he asked for it - the equivalent of about a dollar. Ibrahim chastised me for not bargaining, telling me I could have had it for much less money than that. I told him that to me it was worth far more than that.
CONVERSATIONS WITH THE DOGON
Because of the Dogon arcane knowledge of cosmology, one of the Peace Corps guys kept wanting to ask people about their knowledge of the stars. I, of course, had to act as translator. But these conversations were not easy, because the question would come in English which I had to translate into French, and Ibrahim would translate into Dogon. And then the answer would come back though the same steps. I noticed right away that a lot was lost in translation when people spoke in paragraphs, so we had our conversations one sentence at a time.
We would ask, "Can you tell me what the moon is made of?" "Can you tell me what the stars are made of?"- questions like that. And the answers that came back were always the same - "Well I don't know, you have to ask somebody older” (or somebody with more specialized knowledge for one reason or another) ... and then we would ask where we might find such a person, and we would be led to somebody older or more specialized. When we got to people of a certain age, we needed to add yet another layer of translation, because these people spoke "Old Dogon" which Ibrahim did not speak. Eventually they told us we had to ask the griot (the resident carrier of the local oral history) - but he was not there. So it seemed that we would never get the answers to our questions. Until, that is, we were leaving Dogon country and were climbing up the cliff - which is much harder than climbing down!
As we were nearing a very isolated village high on the cliff - a village that no tourists were allowed to enter - my wife, Rosemary, became violently ill with very serious nausea. Here's where Omar showed his special value. This was his grandfather's village - he was chief - and Omar could get us in.
That this was a village that did not see tourists became immediately apparent. Whereas in the other villages the children had quickly gravitated to us, with a kind of easy going friendly curiosity, here the children looked at us as though we were from Mars. Perhaps they had seen white people before, but clearly not very often, and not necessarily under such friendly circumstances. Well, here we were, and Rosemary began to throw up. Then it seemed like the whole village wanted to gather around and watch the white lady being sick. Ibrahim had the presence of mind to suggest that I play music, which I did. “Just walk” he said, “and they’ll follow you”. He was right, and as I walked away playing the banjo, like the Pied Piper of Hamlin, I led the whole village away from my suffering wife.
Later, after much music and singing, the children did warm up to me and dropped those suspicious looks. And once Rosemary felt better we were brought to meet the village chief, Omar's grandfather. Now here was really the oldest looking man we had yet met in Dogon country - thin, tough and wizened. He sat and held court and we talked - with myself and Ibrahim as intermediaries. Well, naturally, with such an old man before us, out came the cosmology questions.
"Can you tell us what the stars are made of?" "Well, I don't know what the stars are made of, but I can tell you this: They're not really small - they only look small because they're so far away."
"Can you tell us what the moon is made of?" "Well I don't know what the moon is made of, you'll have to ask those who've been there."
And at this point we think we're really getting to the heart of arcane Dogon mythology, and ask "Where can we find those who've been there?"
He looked at us, incredulously: "Why, in America, of course!"
Oooops!
Then we asked if he thought it was going to rain tomorrow. By now, he clearly thought we were idiots of the first order. He said, “How would you find out if it’s going to rain tomorrow? You would listen to the radio! We don’t have radios here, so I don’t know if it’s going to rain tomorrow!”
And thus ended our last audience with a Dogon elder.
THE STORY COMES FULL CIRCLE
Though ever present on my mind, I never encountered another banjo-like instrument on the rest of our travels, despite asking everywhere we went. I did, though, have an opportunity to show the instrument I brought back to Eric Frandsen a few years later, at Montreal's Yellow Door Coffeehouse, and demonstrate how it was played clawhammer style. I don't know whether or not he actually remembered our earlier conversation that had sent me off on this quest, but it was still cool to be able to bring the conversation full circle.
As far as I can tell, I was the first person to find clawhammer in Africa and recognize it as such. There may have been others before me, but I haven't heard about them yet.
The man himself, Donald Nitchie, editor and founder's son of Banjo Newsletter, is a BHO member. Let's contact him and give him our vote on publishing this article in his paper. This is such fascinating history to share, it would be a disservice to not publish it.
I think that "Dogon Clawhammer" makes an excellent title, (as on the first page), with "HOW I STUMBLED ACROSS THE ROOTS OF AMERICAN BANJO PLAYING WHILE STUMBLING THROUGH WEST AFRICA IN 1981" as a subtitle.
That whole story is quite a demonstration of personal tenacity, musical talent and an educational lesson for all of us.. You are truly one of a kind Marc. Thanks for this. 
