Djoliba Crossing: Sample Chapters

Djoliba Crossing

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You are reading a small sample from the book Djoliba Crossing by Dave Kobrenski.

The full version is 182 pages, with over 70 pages of full color paintings, drawings, maps, and music notations.

H

full version of the book:

http://DjolibaCrossing.com/book

preFAce •

In the music and culture of the Mande peoples I have found so much as to

occupy my thoughts and invigorate my imagination for over a decade now. My

travels in the Mande homeland of West Africa have opened my eyes not only

to what the human imagination is capable of, but to the extremes of what the

human spirit is able to endure. In the face of outright plundering and enslave-

ment, of oppression and extreme poverty, these peoples have, through their

music and dance, produced and sustained a means of collectively expressing

the simple joy of living, with each other and within their place.

Between and , I returned to Guinea, West Africa, a half-dozen

times for winter-long excursions, immersing myself in the traditional music

of the Malinké people. In the Hamana region of central Guinea, I sought to

experience the music in the land that was the birthplace of instruments like

the djembe, and according to some anthropologists, the place where some of

the world’s earliest musical instruments had evolved. With my notebook, tape

recorder and sketchbook, I set out to explore, learn, and document what I

experienced there.

PrefaceH

• djoliBA crossiNg

I present this travel-worn collection of drawings, paintings, writings, and

musical notations here both as a celebration of Malinké music as well as an

attempt at chronicling just one of the many ways in which humans have cre-

ated meaning and expressed themselves through culture. Part travelogue, part

sketchbook, this is a book about glimpsing in the everyday dust of existence the

potential for rich and meaningful expressions of being in the world; of seeing

that beyond the tattered common cloth of life hangs a veil of mystery infused

with magic and wonder. Donning an old pack, passport in hand, leaving behind

what was known and comfortable to experience another culture was, ultimately,

a journey into what it means to be human. I had no real idea of what I might

find, neither about the culture I was visiting, nor about myself. In the end, I

learned many unexpected things on both fronts.

We hear a great deal today about the devastation of our earth’s natural

resources — the sharp blade of progress, wielded hastily and often carelessly,

resulting in the loss of both species and habitat — but we hear less about the

disappearance of cultures and whole languages from the planet. This latter “great

extinction” is in fact occurring at an astonishing rate, more rapidly than even the

biological extinction at hand. It is estimated that in the past 500 years alone,

the world has lost more than half of its languages — and along with them the

stories, wisdom, and knowledge of the natural world contained therein. It is

expected that this rate will only increase: by the end of this century, it is believed

that fully half of the planet’s remaining 7000 languages could also disappear

forever, at an estimated rate of one language every 2-3 months.

Needless to say, humanity finds itself at a delicate crossroads. Advancing

the goals of progress blindly without regard to what is at stake is to risk sever-

ing our line to a great ancestral heritage filled with knowledge and wisdom.

That doesn’t mean that progress itself is bad (or even that all traditions are

good) — but a society that can move itself forward technologically while still

preFAce •

maintaining its diversity of language and culture can create a future that is

healthy and sustainable for all its people.

Preserving the cultural diversity of our species, then, is not merely a fanciful

exercise, nor even strictly an academic one. It also means making accessible the

collective wisdom, intelligence, and imagination that has enabled us to survive

on this planet thus far — a legacy that is embodied in the songs, dances, art,

and stories of the many peoples that still practice their native traditions today

and that still speak their native tongue. To survive the challenges that we will

face in the future, collectively as a global community, we will most certainly

require not only this diversity of critical thought and imagination, but the vast

repository of knowledge and history kept alive in the traditions of indigenous

peoples around the globe. Just as nature succeeds by diversifying infinitely,

so too must human society today consciously seek to defend, nurture, and

celebrate the diverse array of expression embodied by the old cultures still

present in the world today.

The survival of our world’s cultural diversity into tomorrow, though, relies

on the imagination and vision each of us puts forth into the world today. The

kind of world our children will create will depend in large part on how well we

equip them with a true knowledge of the past, and a sense of all the cultural

brilliance that has flourished here since antiquity. Moving forward, we in the

Western world must shed any notion that it is our own modern society that

represents the pinnacle of human existence and the one “right” way of being in

the world. We must reexamine our notions of primitive and evolved, and to

do so, look closely at what is required of a society to live both sustainably and

meaningfully on planet Earth — and while sustainability is a feature that proves

itself over time, true meaning cannot be defined by one for another.

To embrace the concept of a global village where the world’s cultural diver-

sity flourishes is to embark on a journey into the collective hopes and dreams


of countless generations of humans who have come before us, who strove for

a meaningful existence for themselves and their descendants, drawing always

on the wisdom of their ancestors. In taking this journey of exploration we may

discover something about ourselves: that who we are is comprised of who we

were — and who we were is a fire still kindled by the old cultures, steadfastly

protecting the embers of their traditions in the face of a modern world that

seeks to envelop them and sweep away the past like dust. Once gone, gone

forever.

Herein, then, is my attempt at celebrating the exuberance and richness

that the Mande peoples have brought into the world, and the simple gifts

of friendship and open exchange they have extended to an oft-wayward, but

always searching, world traveler. May future generations continue to praise

their ancestors for preserving their great lineage, the story of how they came to

be — and may it serve as a beacon for other travelers embarking on that path

into unfamiliar territory.

Dave Kobrenski AUgUst

Main text here please

preFAce •

wAdiNg iNto tHe river djoliBA •

first waded into the Niger River, known to locals of the Hamana region of Guinea as the Djoliba, on Christmas day in . An avid

student of Mande drumming styles, I was eager to immerse myself in the experience of a traditional Maninka village, far from the congestion of Guinea’s capital city, in a setting I hoped would shed some light for me on the the roots of the music I had come to West Africa to learn.

Wading into the River Djoliba

“How many piled-up ruins, how much buried splendour! But all the deeds I have spoken of took place long ago and they all had Mali as their background. Kings have succeeded kings, but Mali has always remained the same…Mali is eternal.”— d.t. NiANe, An Epic of Old Mali


I had seen many organized displays in and around Conakry, in Guinea, as

well as numerous performances in the States by the various traveling African

ballets — but I had long wanted to experience the music at its source, to un-

derstand how the music functioned in its traditional setting. An overland trip

from the capital peninsula-city of Conakry, far inland to the Hamana region,

was certainly possible — but with the presidential elections scheduled for

December , tensions were high throughout the region. Dozens of military

personnel had been jailed leading up to the date, the main opposition parties

were boycotting the election, and depending on the outcome, the possibility of

violence breaking out was very real. Military presence was heavy, particularly

at the borders of the city — meaning, amongst other things, that travel inland

could prove to be a challenge.

With the elections approaching, six opposition candidates were rejected

on “technicalities” and only one candidate was left to run against the unpopular

and long-standing Guinean president Lansana Conté. The election arrived, with

the results unsurprising: Conté was re-elected, further extending his 20-year

term. The morning after, the sporadic ringing of gunshots could be heard across

the district — but no widespread violence occurred in Conakry…this time.

We made ready to depart on the evening of the 24th. Though the pos-

sibility existed that military roadblocks could thwart our attempt to travel

past the borders of the capital city, leaving before daybreak might increase our

chances of getting through — additionally, the resolve of some military officers

could often be softened with a few modest bribes. Awaking in the pre-dawn

hours on Christmas morning, the city was eerily quiet. The trancelike drone

of morning prayer had not yet begun; the silence was punctuated only by the

occasional staccato sounds of a solitary broom whisking a stone courtyard,

the rogue rooster, dogs barking far off. With a tremendous rumble, the diesel


van we had piled into roared off, and we began our trip into the interior. In

the darkness of morning we were met with several roadblocks on the route

out of Conakry, and with much commotion — military officers boarding the

bus, speaking loudly in Susu or Peuhl, sometimes Maninka — passports were

shown, bribes were demanded and paid, and in a cloud of diesel exhaust and

dust, we were allowed through.

As the veil of night lifted, a world utterly foreign to me began to take shape

on the road out of Conakry. I couldn’t deny that, as a young and inexperienced

traveler, I had arrived with an unavoidable assortment of preconceptions and

naive imagery of what I would find here, shaped in one part by an incomplete

knowledge of the history of the region, and in another part by my own idyllic

visions of an Africa that only exists in movies and outdated textbooks. All of

these were shattered as the sun began to illuminate an incomprehensibly vast

landscape of poverty; miles upon miles of close-knit shanty towns, dwellings

made of cardboard and tin, smoke rising from oil-barrel cook-fires. The im-

mensity of it was staggering. As we drove slowly, weaving through masses of

people in one of the most impoverished areas of the world, I felt dozens of eyes

upon me; my skin, clothes, and traveling entourage all gave away my identity

and origins from the land of excess. Feelings of guilt were both inescapable

and fruitless in the moment. I had come here, I thought, simply to learn about

music…but the real lessons, I would find, were to be much greater than that.

Once off the peninsula, the inland trip proved to be grueling, across a

landscape that seemed able to stonewall any excursion. Often unpaved, washed

out, or simply unmaintained for decades, the narrow, often steep-banked roads

of Guinea’s interior were not for the faint of heart: blown tires, overheated

engines, bent axles, or worse, are all too common. Here, the traveler does not

dictate to the landscape the pace or fate of the journey. Stronger forces always


seem to be at play, in a land that gives easy rise to superstition: each roadway

seemed, at times, to have its own impish spirit, capable of imposing perilous

havoc on travelers.

Having made our way safely out of Conakry, and into the cool morning

countryside where the smog and dust were replaced by the smell of dew and

fresh vegetation, other challenges still faced us. As the sun climbed higher,

and the withering heat of day along with it, our movement across the country

progressed in short spurts, with much time spent by the side of the road amidst

the sun-baked savannah, vultures circling overhead while drivers worked to

make repairs to the old truck with spare parts carried on the roof. When the

repairs were complete and the engine roared miraculously back to life, we would

climb aboard and continue on our way. As we rode, I saw — through the small

holes in the rusted metal floor at my feet — the last relics of colonialism pass

beneath us: the roadways themselves. The crude network of narrow roads that

crisscrossed the country, originally built for the benefit of the mining companies,

were projects that had been started but never finished; many had dwindled into

decay when colonial powers finally submitted to Guinean independence in the

late s — withdrawing their resources as they left.

If at times the destination seemed very far indeed, it was also marked by

the beauty of a countryside totally new to me. Stops along the roadside would

find the shade of banana trees welcoming, the air slightly refreshed from the

afternoon heat. When locals emerged with fresh mango, papaya, avocado, loaves

of fresh-baked bread, and plastic bags filled with spring water, spirits were

renewed. The landscape was both rugged and invigorating, always changing

as we passed through it: lush coastal forest, then savannah giving way to high

mountainous region. In early evening, when the sky was painted in hues of

amber and salmon, the countryside showed its ageless quality. Time began to


function in that peculiar way it does for a child lost at play: moments that seem

to span impossible distances; hours that seemed more like days.

As we traversed the countryside, my companions and I passed the time

with conversation that would alternate between a half dozen or more languages.

A lively crew comprised of a handful of travelers from various parts of the globe,

along with renowned master djembefola Famoudou Konaté and several of his

musical apprentices, we had been brought together by a shared love for the

common language of music. Along the route, we formed an unlikely and tran-

sient ensemble: songs were sung in raised voices over the din of the road while

rhythms were tapped out on the backs of the worn out benches of our aged

metal coach. In this manner, we passed through the towns of Kindia, Mamou,

and Dabola, sometimes stopping for food and water at roadside markets where

rows of dugumansa — literally, the “vulture kings” in Maninka — lined the

rooftops. When we wearied of chatter and song, drowsy with heat, sleep was

nonetheless difficult to achieve given the extreme nature of the bumpy roads: at

times the truck would lurch into enormous potholes and I would be launched

ten inches above my seat, landing on the hard metal bars of the seat’s frame as

a collective groan arose from my fellow passengers.

The sky had long since darkened to a deep black when we reached our

destination, some 20 kilometers past the inland river port of Kouroussa, and

nearly 20 hours after we had departed from Conakry. The over-worked truck

heaved to rest at last in the darkness beneath a canopy of trees upon the shores

of the Niger River. The soft sand felt comforting on the feet; the heat of the

day had given way to a cloudless cool night. Above us, the stars congregated

in thick clusters. Unloading our belongings — which had been secured with

ropes and a net to the roof of the vehicle — our journey’s end awaited on the

opposite bank of the river, crossable via one of the village’s wooden pirogues.*

*long wooden boats carved from a single massive tree


Heavily fatigued from the journey, the night air brought a revitalizing

energy. As we shouldered our bags and made our way across the wide banks

towards the water’s edge, a sound carried across the river, from beyond the

darkness, as if from within the night itself: the deep pulsating sound of the

Maninka drums rising above the Djoliba, beyond its far shores. There it grew

louder, a crackling djembe darting skillfully through the dense rhythmic melody

of the bass drums: the sangban, dununba, and kenkeni filling the night with

their resonance. It was for this moment that I had traveled so far.

As I waded into the cool river and boarded the pirogue, pants rolled to

the knee, I saw the grin of a crescent moon hovering low in the sky. With the

river lapping the sides of the boat, we drifted closer to our destination, and the

night came alive: far from any road, from any town or city, the sound of the

drums grew louder and more potent with each pass of the ferryman’s pole. By

the time the far shore behind us had dissolved completely into blackness, the

fervent drumming had enveloped the night. We had arrived.






preFAce •





You are reading a small sample from the book Djoliba Crossing by Dave Kobrenski.

The full version is 182 pages, with over 70 pages of full color paintings, drawings, maps, and music notations.

H

full version of the book:

http://DjolibaCrossing.com/book

ABoUt tHe AUtHor / illUstrAtor

Dave Kobrenski is a musician, artist, and performer with a background in

illustration and graphic design. Between 2001 and 2008, Dave traveled exten-

sively in West Africa to study music with master musicians such as Famoudou

Konaté, Nansady Keita, Sayon Camara, and other musicians of the region. He

studied the African flute with a master of the Malinké flute tradition, Lanciné

Condé.

Dave plays the Fulani flute, kamale ngoni (10-string Mande harp), djembe,

and guitar. He currently performs throughout the northeastern U.S. with the

Donkilo! Afro Funk Orkestra, as well as with Sayon Camara and Landaya, and

various other groups. Dave has been teaching West African style music to

students of all ages since 1998.

More info about Dave’s current projects & performances: davekobrenski.com

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ABoUt tHe Artwork iN tHe Book

Dave paints primarily with Winsor-Newton watercolor paints on Arches cold-

pressed paper, and uses Caran d'Ache watercolor pencils. Dave prefers Staedtler,

Tombow, and Caran d'Ache pencils for his sketches and drawings.

Museum-quality prints of the artwork in this book are available for purchase

from the author. Please visit djolibabook.com for more details.

About the Author

Djoliba Crossing: Sample Chapters

Documents

music notations

traditional music

celebration of malink

natural world

human imagination

estimated rate

book djoliba crossing

musical notations