David Whitley unwittingly finds himself as a guest at a wedding with a difference in Senegal, Africa’s musical hotspot.
As the drumbeats pound with increasing menace and fanaticism, the bride looks on with a look of amused bewilderment. She is wearing what looks like a pair of brightly-coloured pyjamas, complete with a fetching cap. It’s perhaps the least solemn, dignified wedding outside of an Elvis-themed Las Vegas chapel.
Egbert and Marie, retired restauranteurs from Holland, have come all the way to West Africa for a very special occasion. They’ve been married for nearly 35 years, and have dragged their entire family to Senegal for a celebration and a renewal of the vows. However, one suspects that things are not being taken entirely seriously.
The son-in-law, Bert, spent most of the afternoon propping up the bar, filling in anyone who would listen about the details, between slurs and asking the barman for more rounds.
“He came here two years ago on a fishing trip – Une autre bière s’il vous plait, Alfons – and he really liked it,” came the explanation.
“I am supposed to be the master of ceremonies. But I think Alfons here would do a much better job, wouldn’t you Alfons?”
The rest of the story is of variable coherence, but suffice to say the entire family has spent at least five hours knocking back a range of interesting spirits before the ceremony gets underway. And, entirely predictably, the first choice MC can be found sat in a plastic chair, dribbling slightly and bobbing back and forth to the music.
This means that a new one has to be found, and sharpish. And who better than the leader of the cultural dance troupe that is providing the resort’s entertainment for the night? That he speaks no Dutch or English is entirely irrelevant, the show must go on in a bizarre hybrid of French, Wolof and Mandinka.
He throws himself into the thankless task with a gusto that seems to run through Senegal. This is a country which has long ignored the restraint so admired by its French former colonial masters. Walk into any Dakar nightclub, and you’ll be surrounded by a seething mass of sweaty bodies, dressed to kill and being thrown around the dancefloor with violent yet seductive force.
Senegal has a music scene that is truly unique, unquestionably the most vibrant in Africa if not the world. It’s a constantly mutating beast, taking everything from across the world to from salsa to hip hop and merging it with the traditional tribal beats. It’s a loose church generally called mbalax, and it’s nothing if not exciting.
We’re a long way from the capital here, in a genteel resort fringing the gorgeous mangroves of the Sine-Saloum Delta, but the intensity is the same. In the isolated village, teeming with rare birdlife, six men are hammering away at the drums with such ferocity and rhythm that you can’t help but become mesmerised and feel totally invigorated. Their hands must be covered in sores, so fast do they crash down upon the taut skins of the locally-made instruments. The danger-laden beats just accelerate as they combine to provide complex melodies. At that point the dancers burst from behind the screen, somehow keeping time with the musicians behind them, and flailing their arms with savage abandon. The jerky movements are accompanied by primeval yelping and chanting, designed to make hairs stand and blood stir. It’s first class entertainment, way in excess of what you’d expect from your average hotel band, and a great indicator of just how vibrant the scene is here.
But when it all quietens down for a second, there is something more important to deal with. Egbert and Marie are parked in the middle of the arena on plastic ‘thrones’ quickly stolen from the bar area. With his beard, nightgown and cap, Egbert looks like a ruddy-faced Wee Willie Winkie, and he just can’t hide is grin, even though he largely hasn’t a clue what’s going on.
The crowd has to combine to make sense of the proclamations, with snippets of schoolboy French clubbed together for the greater good. It seems as though this is to be a traditional Senegalese ceremony, and therefore they need to have traditional Senegalese names. Alam Demba and Moussoumbala are to be joined together in holy matrimony, but first, a word from some important dignitaries.
First up is Alam Demba’s father, who looks curiously like one of the guys who was hammering away at the drums a mere five minutes ago. He is full of sage advice. “Marriage is not child’s play. You have to hold it with seriousness,” he offers in direct contrast to the farce that is unfolding before us.
“You must not beat her, and you must hold her like you would an egg.”
Moussoumbala’s mother also has a few words of wisdom, informing her beloved daughter that she really ought to find her ‘new’ husband fresh water every day, do all the household chores and look after the all their children. “I expect you to have at least fifty,” she notes.
Next up is the head of the village, or rather one of the dancers messing around with a walking stick. “You must not mess around. No hanky panky. But you may have up to four wives.”
Following some help from the ‘imam’, the couple are officially pronounced man and wife, and given some delicious kola nuts to chew on. These are regarded as a great aphrodisiac, but taste awful – like a giant, dry coffee bean. Egbert has a munch, but lasts three seconds before spitting it out in disgust.
“Oh dear… you will have bad love now,” says the MC, shaking his head, as the drummers regroup and the dancers spring back from around the pool. In celebration of the new couple, the stakes have been raised, some dancing with and eating fire, some on giant stilts and some in monster outfits. The rumble becomes a roar as the happy couple kiss and complete strangers offer their congratulations and hopes for another 35 years. Tradition be damned; the moonlight, mood and mbalax are way more memorable than a white wedding.
This article was originally written for the Sun-Herald.
Copyright David Whitley
