BOB HOLMAN

Did you miss ON THE ROAD WITH BOB HOLMAN on linktv.org? Don’t fret! Here are all three episodes!

Episode 1 (http://www.linktv.org/programs/on-the-road-episode-1) follows Father and Son griots Papa and Karamo Susso and is an exploration of the oral traditions of West… Africa, roots of the blues, jazz, hiphop — and a quest to visit African American Beat poet Ted Joans (1928-2003), who lived in Timbuktu.

Episiode 2 (http://www.linktv.org/programs/on-the-road-episode-2) is a travelogue, visiting the Tamasheks aka Tuaregs, the Sahara “Blue People,” and the Dogons, the renowned mask makers of Africa. The cinematography here is incredible — Beatriz Seigne, Lamont Steptoe and Karamo Susso all contributing extraordinary footage.

Episode 3 (http://www.linktv.org/programs/on-the-road-episode-3) is the most directly involved with endangered languages, this time through the lens of the languages of Israel — Hebrew, Yiddish, Ladino, and Arabic. Yiddish and Ladino are both endangered. Ram Devineni’s creating a video poem in the midst of this, the five-minute rendition of a story told by Yiddish storyteller Sarat, intercut with my visit to the Wailing Wall, is a highlight. The poem, “The Feeling,” was a selection at last year’s Zebra International Poetry Film Festival in Berlin.

As in the French, Mali being part of French West Africa, “pie-ee” or the area of the Dogons, whose epigraph as the “mask-builders of Africa” gives them mysterious purpose but is a dire simplification. A truly independent people, their cliff villages have an otherworldly yet organic complexity. Their cosmology, as revealed to French anthropologist Marcel Griaule in the late 40s, is similarly fantastic but grounded, with some Dogons believing in visits from aliens (from Sirius, to be exact: the Sigi Festival occurs every sixty years, ready or not, when a hidden moon of Sirius Dog Star appears in the heavens) and others possessing the ability to fly. And this is not to mention that Dogon villages are built above and below the impossible-to-reach cave-in-the-cliff dwellings of the tribe who preceded them in this Grand Canyon-like escarpment, the Telem, who evidently traveled home by rope. I’ve looked on this part of the Griot Trail, the inspiration for Nathaniel Mackey’s Andoumboulou (“We are the Failed Human Experiment”) poems, as dessert, the most different, the furthest away, the unknown, the essence.

Correct.

(Try one of Mackey’s poems — I consider him the greatest living jazz poet. His poems aren’t about jazz. They are jazz.)

Bob Holman is the host of a new travel series focused on endangered languages called ON THE ROAD WITH BOB HOLMAN on LINK TV. He traveled to West Africa, Middle East and Asia and these are his blog stories from his travels. More information at http://www.rattapallax.com/blog/on_the_road/

The Collected Poetry, Leopold Sedar Senghor. I’m a big fan of Melvin Dixon’s poetry, but his translations seem stilted, and intro, dated. But what a great object to have on hand in Dakar! With Eshelman’s Cesaire translations, we’ve got a good intro to Negritude in English.

Slumberland, Paul Beatty. DJ Darky has created a perfect beat (Think Pootie Tang crossed with a DJ Spooky satire) and is in Berlin to track down an unknown US African American jazz genius whose work he’s discovered as the sound track to porn films. It gets wilder and funnier. A couple of plot gimmicks – spies and fortune tellers – are Beatty’s nod to prose, but his whiplash wit kept me spinning throughout this joke de force.

Tropic Moon, Georges Simenon. The first of Simenon’s nouvelles dur (hard novels, i.e. not Maigret), this is a young man’s descent into lust/love/madness as metaphor in colonial Benin, 1932. Norman Rush, a totally brilliant, required reading, novelist has written a super intro for this new edition.

God’s Bits of Wood, Sembene Ousmane. Ousmane, the great Senegalese film director (required viewing), was a writer long before, and this kaleidoscopic novel of the 1948 Dakar-Bamako train strike against the French overseers is simply great history, great writing. Finished this novel today while working on the Ted Joans section of the Timbuktu shoot, came across the phrase “fine warm sand” and was struck down – it’s a phrase from the totally inspiring letter that Ted’s widow, Laura Corsiglia, sent me right before I left for the Griot Trail! Words I had selected for tomorrow’s blog. (BTW, God’s bits of wood are the native population of West Africa.) Incredibly powerful novel, which Breyten Breytenbach recommended.

The Koran, Allah. The copy given to me, Mohammed Bob, at the Senegal-Gambia border, is hardcover, gilt-embossed, and called The Noble Qur’an. Unlike the first time I read it, when I thought it harsh and finger-pointing, the  book seems quite lyrical this time through. I can see how Rumi got so revved up by it. To understand Islam, read the Koran.

Bob Holman is the host of a new travel series focused on endangered languages called ON THE ROAD WITH BOB HOLMAN on LINK TV. He traveled to West Africa, Middle East and Asia and these are his blog stories from his travels. More information at http://www.rattapallax.com/blog/on_the_road/

It couldn’t be. But it looked like a rainstorm ahead. The river got choppy. Whitecaps appeared. The temperature dropped. The air turned to milk. I had Beatriz and Lamont start shooting and they shot for an entire tape, an hour. We were moving through memory. Inside a cloud. The trees along the river were shaking. It was the last night before Timbuktu.

The sun came down like an iron cover on a pot. Suddenly darker than dark. We huddled around the table for warmth – no food till new land. The Captain’s flashlight revealed nothing but swirling wisps of fog. The moon ghosted up, and the familiar two stars that have been her accompaniment on this trip, but otherwise the sky and river merged into a black tunnel. It was very late, we were very hungry, very cold, freezing, a few miles from the Sahara.

But the Muse calls. I turn on my headlight to jot some words. “Fermez la lumiere!” bellows the Captain. “Turn off your light! It’s dangerous!” “What’s the danger?” I reply, trying to get some perspective. Silence. Crocodiles? Hippos? Are we lost? I see a flashlight on the left shore. “A gauche!” I shout, half a joke, half hoping the Captain will heed my advice and pull us in to safe haven.

This is supposed to be the time to travel by water to Timbuktu – the river at its highest. Much of the year the trip is impossible – the Niger dries up as it bends (“le boucle,” the Buckle) south at the Sahara. Thirty years ago the Niger flowed through Timbuktu. Now it’s almost twenty kilometers away. Desertification for real.

But tonight the river’s height has changed the shoreline. The fog cloud has turned things around. The high water has caused some of the riverfront villages to be abandoned. Where can we put in for the night? Where is the shore? We cross the broad river, searching. Our jokes have subsided. For almost two hours the Captain stands at the prow, making small hand gestures to the man at the wheel. This way, that.

Suddenly we are ashore, a lonely sand spit, wind blowing mercilessly. The lone tree explodes in a cacophony of scolding and we name the place “Monkey Island.” As the crew sets up the tents, Karamo goes ashore to record the madness. It’s not monkeys but egrets, huddling themselves, reproaching us for invading their sorry dune.

We take dinner on the boat. Last night had been full of stories and imitations of each other.  Tonight,  our last night on the Niger, is full of tent-shaking monsters – grit teeth to stay on ground. Sand blowing everywhere, somehow getting inside the tents. Frantic dreams. By morning, my sandals, left outside,   must be dug out.

We break camp. Two tents blow into the Niger and are fished out with poles. We cast off at daybreak. We’re too cold and tired to shoot.

The blankets we’d bought in Niafunke became our outerwear. All we can do is make time downstream. We are promised a Tuareg village; the one we find is deserted. Filled with loneliness. Finally, late afternoon, we enter Timbuktu like most: tired, dusty, bumping along in an open bache (small truck), wrapped in rags.

Bob Holman is the host of a new travel series focused on endangered languages called ON THE ROAD WITH BOB HOLMAN on LINK TV. He traveled to West Africa, Middle East and Asia and these are his blog stories from his travels. More information at http://www.rattapallax.com/blog/on_the_road/

I ask Amadou 2 what our pinasse is called. “Just Pinasse.” So be it

The Niger slips under. The kora plays. Lamont is extending his 1500 page autobiography, wearing new pants and shirt. Bea is sleeping. All are thrilled with our toilet: a hole in the boat with some 4 foot walls around it, a door with a sliding bolt.

We have some Chinese tea. “Papa would like this,” Karamo says. Yes, if he’d known there would be tea maybe he would have stayed with us. Bambara is still the prevalent language, Fulani has become Peul, Wolof has disappeared, add Bozo, Tuareg, Songhay, Dogon, Bela. The energy is flowing the poem. The Niger is placid, ripe, full of possibility. We’ll be at Lac Debo tonight. Fresh capitaine sounds good too. The kora sounds like Papa. Sure he’s here. I’ll find Ted Joans too. This is Bob Holman, on board the Just Pinasse, “On the Griot Trail.”

Bob Holman is the host of a new travel series focused on endangered languages called ON THE ROAD WITH BOB HOLMAN on LINK TV. He traveled to West Africa, Middle East and Asia and these are his blog stories from his travels. More information at http://www.rattapallax.com/blog/on_the_road/