A life goal realized

at a hippie festival.

A Senegalese friend invited me to a drum concert, knowing how enthusiastic I was about African drums (don't mistake my enthusiasm for knowledge--I was excited as I am ignorant. I mean, I've heard a djembe...a few times...in America). But when a friend and I met him at a salsa club and he informed me he was in a band and had friends in one too, I was thrilled and told him so! Thus, the invitation.

Three of us headed out Friday evening, choosing three fairly-functional Sevici Fahrräder, armed with two maps in my cool, new (Moroccan-scented), leather backpack. One was a map that didn't actually include our destination, on which I had scrawled directions; the other fairly large and cumbersome, with at least a simple portrayal of where we were headed. I mostly looked at the sun and followed my instincts, pedaling along merrily. I had my moccasins on, after all.

Never lost, just in new & unknown territory.

We soon followed the sounds of the drums! Well, to clarify: the first time we heard the drum
 we had mistaken the cars on the bridge over-head as a drumbeat (wishful thinking, perhaps). Minutes later we heard the real drums, which piqued* our interest and gave us energy to hurry ourselves the rest of the way in the still-warm Sevillian evening.

Parque Alamillo greeted us with quite the sight--I did not know Spain boasted such a hippie population. We passed a stereotypical van; the stereotypical sights and sounds; smells too, suggesting some recreational smoking (it is legal here in Spain); as well as the typical clothing, or lack thereof. But they weren't what interested us. In the midst of a circle of los hippies, we found that for which we had been looking (awkward evasion of a prepositionally ended sentence (that's probs not a real adverb))--a band of African drummers!

See more photos by clicking on these words.

The rhythm was unbelievably danceable and their energy and cooperation were astounding. There seemed to be a set of gestures they would use to signal a change in the rhythm, otherwise, I'm not sure how they could communicate and stay in sync throughout each distinct change in the music. They sometimes sang, sometimes got up and danced (I filmed one of them) and then finally, finally, something I've always wanted to do: I danced to the rhythm of the African drumbeat.
I had told my friend that before we left I would have done it for at least a couple minutes. I mean, who doesn't want to stroll out in the middle of Spaniards, other Europeans, Americans etc., and dance like a Yooper from Michigan, temporarily in Sevilla, España, to the sound of Senegalese men skillfully playing music? Clearly, I was up for it. And it was wonderful. She and I leapt right in and got lost in the music.

The night remained just as swell as later I found myself learning Wolof (which is Senegal's official language, I believe, or one of them), brushing up on my German,  and speaking Spanish and English. My brain was happily confused. My visiting friend speaks German and English. One of the men from Senegal speaks Wolof, other African and European languages, German and Spanish. The other speaks various African languages, Wolof, French and Spanish. I speak Spanish, English, German and now 5 phrases of Wolof. My friend from Hillsdale speaks Spanish, English and the same bit of Wolof. Talk about a linguist's dream conversation! I was often translating the German to my friend in Spanish, while simultaneously trying to throw in my brand-spankin' new 20-word Wolof vocabulary. And in learning those phrases, I unconsciously broke them down into phonemes (smallest bits of sound) and discovered some Wolof relative pronouns. If this was a hint at what my future (with Wycliffe, I think) will be like--dancing to the enticing rhythm of other cultures and learning new and unfamiliar languages--bring it on! Hallelujah!

Now back to earth for a bit. We hung out with our new friends some more (after hearing an awesome Spanish-y, folk-y band, which inspired unser Fruend and me to start one next year at Hillsdale!) continuing our 4-language conversation, and then parted ways. We hunted a restaurant and soon found ourselves munching tasty salads, enjoying delicious pizza, and sipping red wine (well, Ben two of us haben Wein getrunken aber die andere, nicht)...at 11:30 PM. How Spanish. Little did we know how time had flown, but we certainly had been having fun. Und ein Insider: and you know what Einstein says about time.

To top off a delightful evening, I sleepily and safely strolled home alone as the other two headed out for some late-night salsa dancing. And as I selected various streets, planning the unknown route as I went, I determined that any road including a family, elderly people, groups of girls or at least one baby, would be safe. In the hour-long walk to dear old Triana, I successfully made it to the exact street at which I thought I'd find myself. I count it a victory.

Magi chi yam Juliann, I had proudly said to one of the Senegalese men in the second band. He was impressed. Nothing compares to speaking with someone in his native tongue.

I cannot wait to learn more languages: ñu dem! ¡Vámonos!

*EDIT 12/4/11: Thank you to my sister Joy, the Hillsdale English major, I replaced the incorrect peaked with piqued. May I blame this error on the normal problems one has with one's first language when speaking a second? Probably not.