Bakaly Camara

For the last few days my mind and spirit have been split between here and Guinea, West Africa. So many images, sounds, people and memories from West Africa, drown out what is happening in the present. On Sunday my friend and balaphone teacher, Alkaly Camara suffered what appeared to be a heart attack at home in Conakry. He died before arriving at the hospital. Although we are not sure how old he was, our guess is that he was in his 70's. Sadness at the loss of this gentle spirit and amazing musician comes in waves. I have been listening to a CD of his music that my son produced, and the fact that his music remains eases the grief.

His students and friends called him Bakaly. Ba is a term of endearment and respect similar to saying, "honored Grandfather." Bakaly played the ancient balaphone, ancestor to the xylophone and marimba. He was one of the most respected and honored bala players in the world. He had traveled around the world playing with two incredible touring ensembles, Les Ballets Africains and Percussions des Guinee.


I met Bakaly in 2000 when I traveled to Conakry to see what help I could be to a small school for Sierra Leonean refugees that my son had come to know. Tiani studied balaphone with Bakaly and jembe with other master drummers. Bakaly would arrive at our small two room home with his bala, having carried it for a couple of twenty minute walks on either end of a mogbana ride, taking more than an hour to get to us. [A mogbana, a van converted to seat a couple dozen people, is the cheapest form of vehicle transport in Conakry.]

Tiani and Bakaly would take their balas and walk behind the house down to the river's edge overlooking mangrove forests that wound to the Atlantic Ocean. There, under a single towering tree and seated on a large rock, they would play together. Sitting with them and listening to the two hour lessons is one of my happiest memories. Bakaly loved playing with this student who learned so quickly and loved the instrument and its music. Tiani delighted in the process of understanding the melodies and how they combined to create such beautiful songs. The vibrational tones of the bala mallets on the wooden keys creates a childlike sound, light and wistful. The two men played together was like two dancers in a ballet. They did not speak. They were of one mind, spirit and time. They communicated through the music and the movement of their mallets. A couple of times in Guinea, I took a lesson with Bakaly. It seemed to me a waste of his time as my abilities were limited, and I was quite intimidated by his skill and very presence. It seemed wiser for him to teach my son who could then teach me! But today, with his absence so palpable, I am glad to have risked being his poor student.

Later, Bakaly came to the US and stayed in our home, lived for nearly a year with our son, and even played bala at his wedding. I was able to take bala classes with him and to listen to him play many times. He was a quiet person, never demanding but always strong. His dedication to his music and the balaphone came from a deep passion and loyalty to its tradition. He lived simply and wanted to provide a better home for his family. He smiled a lot. He had few comforts and by our standards, the quality of his everyday life was poor. Twice the Guinean government took land and a home he was building to construct a road. Never was he compensated. In the last three years he was building yet another home in hopes that he could move his family out from Conakry.

As I write this my balaphone sits beside me. It belonged to Bakaly and is the instrument he played to record the CD. Some dear friends bought it from him to give to me as a surprise gift. That night, he played Douba, a favorite song of mine. I thought the song played for me was the gift. When they told me the bala was mine, I could not believe them. Finally Baklay stood up with the bala, walked over to me and put it on my lap. His smile was so big. My eyes filled with tears and my heart with gratitude. Just like right now.

Pond Thoughts

It's an early, sparkly June morning. I am back in from the garden where I raked, trimmed and swept in preparation for a dinner tomorrow night. The pump in my small pond needed to be cleaned, so I hauled it out onto the moss and dumped the rich black water. The twin frogs in residence hid in the pond bottom. They arrived two weeks ago. I heard their loud bullfrog songs before I saw them. A few days later tiny splashes caught my eye when something flicked out from under a fern leaf at the pond's edge. I had to laugh at how little twins produce such big sounds. The frogs grow quickly, so now they are about an inch long. It always feels like an honor when frogs choose my pond for home. Who knows why?

The pump is six years old. It stops bubbling when the silt gets too thick. When I get around to it, I unplug it, dump the water and clean the filters. It is a messy job but one I actually like. I get to play in dirty water and get messy myself. The mystery of the task is whether or not the old pump will revive itself one more time. I always think it may not because it has served its expected term and has been clogged so many times. But once again today, Old Faithful came through for me.

I like the metaphor of this pump. It reminds me that there are times when we all get filled up with silt, gunk, algae and the debris of our lives. Sometimes we keep trying to bubble and pump our selves when we are badly clogged. Sometimes we just stop pumping. Our bodies cannot take any more of what is our normal activity. Sometimes all we need is time out for the rush of clean water to clear our filters. Then we can reposition our fountain spouts and get back to the pond of life where our moving waters and gentle songs contribute beauty and attact others.

It's a bird, it's a plane...

A funny thing happened at church last Sunday. We had a guest minister who was speaking about our fears and worries and how they limit us. She referenced Parker Palmer's story in The Active Life about going on an Outward Bound trip. When he was rappelling down a cliff, he got in a bit of a fix. The instructor told him it was time to learn the Outward Bound motto: When you can't get out of it, get into it! The minister continue by sharing the fears she had as she approached a pilgrimage in the Himalayas.

All of a sudden a women in the pew in front of me screamed out, "Oh, my God!" and pulled her feet up under her. She looked terrified and pointed to the floor. The woman next to her pulled her feet up. I picked up my handbag off the floor and put my sandaled feet on the hymnal rack. I was sure it was a mouse because the first woman was so frightened. My friend to my right said, "Is it a snake?" Just then an enormous roach, probably a Palmetto bug, skuttled under our pew on his way to the back of the sanctuary. A woman behind us said, "I hate roaches!" The minister, of course, had to stop for a few moments until things settled back down. Being good Unitarian Universalists, no one killed the roach because we believe in the interdependent web of all existence.

Ever since then i have been struck by the fact that each of us presumed the frightening thing was what we fear most; a roach, mouse, spider or snake. Isn't that just like us? We approach situations and relationships fearing the one thing that scares us the most and forget that others are frightened by different things. We miss the possibilities because we are so focused on our fear. I teased the minister at the end of the service, "You didn't plant that bug, did you?"

birthdays and new beginnings

The air is damp and heavy this morning as the gardens and I wait for a rain that feels just around the corner. Every bush and browning blade of grass is crispy, and the impatiens planted two weeks ago produce new leaves but no colorful flowers. June is like this. The cycle of weather begins to shift from the rains and gentle sun of spring to the more intense heat that draws the moisture from the land and makes me a little cranky.

Each year June brings my life into focus. My birthday arrives in the middle of the month, and for as long as I can recall, I have assessed how my life is going, choices I have or am making, relationships, and the general state of myself in the week before my birthday. I really love birthdays. I enjoy celebrating others', and I like my own.

It has been a different kind of year. I have been mostly healthy, better than the previous year but that is another story, and have traveled a bit to see friends and family and to attend retreats I love. I have worked around our home, written, taught a class at church, served on a couple of committees and boards, and taken it easy.

Part of me feels guilty about having so much that is good and supportive in my life this year . . . and not much stress. My husband works really hard as a high school English teacher. He has a lot of demands on him. I have few on me. I cook and clean and keep our laundry moving through the wash-dry-iron cycle. I try to be cheerful and helpful. But after 40 plus years of working and being available to others' needs, it is a big change to have time of my own and fewer demands.

So once again, I check in with myself. What is working in my life? How do I feel about how I have been spending my time? What do I want to change? What are my dreams for the year ahead? And how do I want to spend my birthday? Usually I like to do the simple things: eat breakfast out back on my patio, take a walk,lunch with friends, go for a swim, have dinner with family. I like to read a novel and call my parents to thank them for the gift of my life. Getting cards and small gifts is nice, too. I appreciate others taking time to think about me once a year. Mostly I want to be with those I love, those who make me better than I am, those who see the possibilites for my next year more clearly than I do.