The Intercollegiate Festival of African Music and Arts

April 6, 2007

by Michael Tucker

I’ve always been wary about culture expos, and I would like to think that my worries are more than just unwarranted pessimism. I’ve been to a few in my relatively gauche existence, and every time the event seems less a genuine representation of foreign culture and more a shameless attempt to peddle poorly made “native” or “cultural” schwag. Would the Intercollegiate Festival of African Music and Arts hosted by the Tufts Department of Music, and the Tufts Department of Drama/Dance be any different?

Saturday, March 31 marked the fourth year of the Festival of African Music and Arts at Tufts. This year, it was an all-day homage to the eclectic culture, featuring three hours of interactive dance and drum workshops, an African street bazaar, a traditional African dinner, and an evening dance and drum performance. Presented by the Tufts Department of Music and the Tufts Department of Drama and Dance, the event also hosted The Berklee School of Music’s West African Drum and Dance Ensemble and JAG Drum and Dance Ensemble, as well as Nukporfe, the SUNY Binghamton Dance-Drumming Ensemble.

My day started with a one-hour drum and dance work shop held in the Jackson Dance Lab of the Aidekman Arts Center. When I arrived, people were already swinging their hips. In a move eerily reminiscent of a middle school dance, I stood off to the side with a few other wallflowers and watched the action unfold. Berklee’s West African Drum and Dance Ensemble began to groove on their native drums as they taught the crowd the basic dance steps. The leader of Berklee’s West African Ensemble charismatically motivated the crowd, assuring the people that giving an honest effort and enjoying the dancing were the most important parts of the workshop.
At first, the participants struggled to get the rhythm down, the crowd akin to a hoard of boozed-up freshman girls flailing their arms at a frat-basement dance party. Despite the rough start, the mood stayed relaxed and informal. David Haas, a Fletcher Grad Student who drummed during the workshop said, “I love the participants’ attitudes. They took it seriously, but not too seriously.” Eventually, everyone worked out the kinks. After a half an hour, the dancing began to get a little smoother—then I kicked off my shoes and decided to give it a shot. Hilarity ensued.

I clumsily stumbled into the back of the group and began throwing my arms around, poorly mimicking the loose, fluid upper body movement that characterizes most traditionally-communal African dance. Each of my motions were static and awkward. I continued, knowing all too well that I looked like a cross between a hockey goalie warming-up and a housewife gardening. When it came time to move my legs, I realized that even the simplest steps can be devastatingly difficult for a clumsy guy like me. The instructor mapped out more and more of the dance as the group continued to learn. I quickly became one of the unlucky few who had neither the rhythm nor the stamina to continue.

Winded, I made my way back to the safety and comfort of the wall. Much to my dismay, the participants in the crowd actually began to pull everything together. People started stepping in tune, waving their hands side to side and throwing them in the air with impressive synchronization. The instructor shouted, “C’mon people, its okay to sweat.” Never in my life have I heard truer words. The Jackson Dance Lab is a small, hot room with little circulation, despite having the most advanced, high tech one-open-window-and-a-fan-in-front-of-it cooling technology. The couple dozen dancers, and the handful of musicians in front of them, were unfazed by the stuffy heat.

The drummers soulfully played in unison, producing an acoustic sound that crisply rang off the cinder block walls. Large drums, referred to as Ashikos, belted out surprisingly rich, full bass notes with each precise crack of the percussionist’s palm. I slouched back against the wall and relaxed, using the soulful music to take my mind off the room’s stifling, tropical climate. The dancing and drumming eventually stopped, but the music was immediately replaced with the clamor of laughter and small-talk. And although the workshop didn’t make phenomenal dancers out of every newcomer, everyone had a great time. Even though I bowed out of the dance early, what little time I spent attempting it was actually enjoyable. Overall, it was an interactive, informative, and entertaining experience.

Throughout the workshop, a man sat stoically on a bench, overlooking the drummers. He was menacingly still, wearing what looked like native dress: black pants and a long, black Dashiki shirt lined in sliver and blue at the bottom. It was African drum virtuoso Alhaji Abubakari, the featured guest artist of the evening performance. Abubakari is the top traditional drummer chief in Northern Ghana, his native country. In addition to his prodigious playing ability, Abubakari is also a highly esteemed drum manufacturer. Making each by hand, he crafted many of the drums played throughout the day using cedar wood for the frames, antelope skin for strings, and dried goat skin to cover the tops. The drums were adorned in bright fabric and wood carvings, adding a unique, native style that could not be replicated. Abubakari and his hand-crafted drums added credibility to the whole event and his presence showed that Tufts was dedicated to providing a culture festival that actually featured traditional, cultural music.
Next, the lower level of the Granoff Music Center housed the African Street Bazaar—a room with food and a hallway filled with retailers selling African dress, ornaments, and jewelry. I expected the retailers to be pushing poorly made trinkets, but I found that each table had fine, original African goods. More importantly, the goal of those at the bazaar wasn’t to make money or to snag a souvenir, but to raise awareness about the problems African nations are facing. While the bazaar was great, it was the people it brought to Tufts that were the true gems of the festival.

One retailer, Karen Sparacio, was selling pressed-paper jewelry that was hand made by Ugandan natives in the Acholi Quarter, one of the poorest regions of Africa. In October 2005, Sparacio went to Uganda as a photographer. What she saw changed her: “When I went [to Uganda] I was shocked. The people were so poor; I’ve never seen anything like it.” She was inspired to start Project Have Hope, a non-profit aimed at stabilizing the Acholi Quarter and helping the residents to become self-supporting. All of the proceeds from her table at the Bazaar went to the organization.

After chatting with the retailers I headed into Fisher Hall for the African Dinner. The buffet-style meal featured seven dishes, all native to North and West Africa. I sat with Fletcher Grad Student Joanna Dadji, who had spent time living in Niamey, the capital city of Niger. Before eating, we talked with her Nigerian husband Adalamtou Dadji, who had a table at the bazaar. He was selling hand-made silver and nickel jewelry from the Touareg and leatherwork from the Wodaabe, both Nigerian nomads.

I unsuccessfully tried to spark conversation with Adalamtou Dadji, not knowing that he only spoke Hausa, the native language of Niger. Joanna Dadji thus acted as the interpreter, sidestepping the language barrier in our increasingly awkward interchange. Dadji opined about the Tufts community in his native tongue, promptly translated by his wife: “I appreciate the diversity of Tufts. Other places in America are less open and interested in difference.”

When we sat down to eat, Joanna Dadji admitted to me, “I don’t really recognize most of this food.” I didn’t recognize anything on my plate either, but that had never stopped me from eating before. I dove in fork first. Attiéké, a finely ground powder made from the manioc shrub, was the highlight of the meal. A staple at any dinner table in Ghana, this orange oddity was deceptively spicy. Its granulated texture felt like sand in my mouth, and I washed each forkful down with a rare treat, the African delicacy drink “Dr. Pepper.”

I left before the grand performance, a casualty of cultural overload. I didn’t need to stay. The 2007 Tufts Intercollegiate Festival of African Music and Arts had already proved that there is hope for culture festivals after all. It was a day filled with snazzy art, intricate jewelry, entertaining music, and interesting personalities. The only drawback? There were no complimentary dashikis.