The Surfers Journal
Light / Dark
Before there was music, there was rhythm—the persistent beat that allows individuals to move together as one. Rhythm, in music, can be described as the placement of sounds in time, like the beat of a drum or a stomping foot. If we perceive rhythm as movement or pattern, then it becomes obvious in other arts too: painting, sculpture, surfing. The notion of rhythm in nature can similarly be seen in the rising sun or the lines of a swell. Here in this corner of West Africa, rhythm pervades all.
Rumor and research have led Michael February to a small fishing town, hoping to experience and document the hypnotic waves and music of Africa. One distinct quality of African music is the use of “polyrhythms” created through simultaneous but conflicting beats. C.K. Ladzekpo, a drummer of the Ewe people of West Africa, explains how a polyrhythmic groove symbolizes the many complexities of daily life on this continent:
“Philosophically, polyrhythm is not only a device for fun, but a way of trying to somehow make sense out of a complex life, and make it easier. When you apply contrasting rhythmic patterns, it creates a certain amount of tension. The idea being, if you get used to managing those tensions, when you are faced with tension in real life, you just think it’s music.”
The manager of the beach resort where we’re staying says large waves always appear after the rain. Pointing at dark clouds, he helps us load the car. We squeeze in and drive for the capital, leaving the beach behind us in search of a soundtrack. The roads are loud, bumpy, dirty, and feel a little dangerous. Smells of the developing world fill the car through open windows, mixing with the sweet contrast of the cocoa factories, momentarily confusing our senses. Through the road noise, a shadow of Francis Bebey’s album Psychedelic Sanza plays from an iPhone. Down through tall grass into a swampy junkyard, we pull off the highway to check on our last car, which broke down on a previous excursion, possibly from a problem with the starter motor. The car is still there, the starter motor and the rest of the engine sitting next to it in the dirt.
Skeletons of wrecked vehicles dot the roadside, simply pushed to the shoulder after crashing, left behind as a cautionary measure. We bounce past a truck with a cow, two goats, and four men in the bed. The rhythm of the traffic slows on the outskirts of the city. From between the seats, we see rows of colorful bags and baskets carried on the heads of vendors floating slowly toward us. Some offer a hasty sales pitch through the glass before vanishing between the vehicles. Some do not appreciate our cameras. It’s a tense drive, but the regular police roadblocks, immigration checks, and speed traps give us plenty of opportunities to stretch our legs. It rains as we grind through the rowdy traffic. A mighty, monotonous rhythm beats on the roof of the car.
The notion of rhythm in nature can be seen in the rising sun or the lines of a swell. Here in this corner of West Africa, rhythm pervades all.
We arrive at a recording studio to meet with Stevo Atambire, a neo-griot (lyricist), kologo master, and a household name in this region. Our hopes of recording music are low when he opens the door. Inside his third-floor space, the noise of the rain is even louder than outside. Our thoughts drift back to the coast, the quiet beachside hotel, the manager, and his forecast. Is it raining down there? Will there be waves tomorrow?
Stevo reaches for his kologo, a two-stringed lute, traditionally played by herdsmen and healers. The body of the instrument usually consists of a hairless animal skin stretched over a dried calabash fruit. Stevo’s kologo is made from a bright-orange glue tin, the word “NEW” bursting out of a black star on its side. A two-foot wooden neck pokes through the tin. Its two strings, one for bass and one for treble, are made from nylon fishing line.
Electrical tape holds the DIY electronics in place—a pickup and a plug. When amplified, it sounds more like German kosmische musik (cosmic music) of the 60s and 70s than traditional music of West Africa. They say that when the griot sings, even the sun at its zenith stops to listen. This seems to work with the rain, too.
Francis Bebey writes about the griot in his book African Music: A People’s Art. “The West African griot is a troubadour,” he explains, “the counterpart of the medieval European minstrel. The griot knows everything that is going on, and he can recall events that are no longer within living memory. He is a living archive of the people’s traditions. But he is above all a musician, without whom no celebration or ritual would be complete.”
Along with being a musician, Bebey was an accomplished storyteller and chronicler of events. In 1968, he won the Grand Prix Littéraire de d’Afrique Noire for his novel, Le Fils d’Agathe Moudio (Agatha Moudio’s Son). In 1975, he published Musique de l’Afrique (African Music: A People’s Art). He writes about his impetuses as a musician and author in the introduction of the latter:
“Our motive in undertaking this initiation into traditional African music is not merely that of a connoisseur bent on sharing the rare fruit of a genuine passion. Rather, we are convinced of the need for other people to explore this unknown and exciting world. This is a world where we can learn more about mankind, a world pulsating with spiritual forces that unashamedly lays bare its inner truth and reveals the threshold of human happiness. The tropical forest is not populated by miserable savages, for, as African music can show us, such creatures do not exist.”
The motivation for our journey might be comparable to Bebey’s—a surf, music, filmmaking adventure in Africa. On one hand, Michael February represents the connoisseur bent on sharing the “rare fruit of a genuine passion.” On the other hand, he believes in the need for people to discover this complex place and believes in the benefits that both locals and travelers might enjoy as a result.
February was born in Woodstock, Cape Town, in 1993, one year before South Africa’s rebirth. Woodstock wasn’t always the cool and calm neighborhood it is today, so the beach was a better place to be. By his tenth birthday, February was entirely obsessed with surfing. Growing up between the beach and his parents’ design studio in the city, he developed a sense of style, which he carries on land and in the water. Half cool, half crazy—classic and progressive—his polyrhythmic approach was easily recognized by our local companion Sam Anasi, a fisherman who had never seen surfing until three years ago.
It is amazing to see people like him surf these waves,” Anasi says. “I would like to do that, but unfortunately, I am aging…haha, so I’m not sure. I will try to influence my kids to get into it because it is very amazing. Especially this guy February, he is wonderful. The way he surfs, I have never seen this type before. Some surfers have come here before, but he is different.”
Surfing on fiberglass and foam is still a rare sight that delights the local kids. Although February has the lineup to himself, he is not alone in the water. Hundreds of colorful fishing boats line the beach. The crews sing, shout, dance, and smoke. The boats power into the lineup and onto the beach, turning back to face oncoming waves while fisherman dive overboard. They bodysurf to shore to retrieve supplies and deliver fish—adept and comfortable amongst the waves.
“I come from a long history of fisherman,” says Anasi. “This is where I was born, about six decades ago. My family has always been fishing and living from the sea. I think this is why the people here understand the waves. We have spent our lives here. Fisherman are not scared to go into the waves, to go from the sea to the beach. We are used to it. It is what we have been doing for a long time. Even if it gets rough, we still do it. If we want to come ashore quick, we ride the waves on our stomachs. It is the only way. Sometimes the boats do the same thing. They paddle—quick, quick, quick—and they ride the waves in.”
They employ a method of artisanal fishing, constructing their boats from a single Wawa tree, which can grow up to 150-feet tall. Often a priest or an herbalist consecrate the vessels, offering advice on how to treat the crafts, and which kinds of taboos one must observe to ensure safety and profitability. The boats are then painted with symbols and messages, said to express the philosophy, religion, status, or superstitions of their owners.
Like its captain, each boat possesses a recognizable identity. Some are serious, some are soulful, and some are just silly. In any case, a beach full of canoes offers great insight into the social fabric of the area. Like the griots, the canoes are messengers who speak for the community.
A beach full of canoes offers great insight into the social fabric of the area. Like its captain, each boat possesses an identity. Like the griots, the canoes speak for the community.
As foretold, the swell arrives a day after the rain. Green-brown waves coil repetitively around a sandy point. February lays down a groove of his own, one moment flowing down the line, the next thrashing his feet, whipping the kids on the beach into a frenzy. After a long ride, he steps off the wave right onto wet sand and lets his board wash up the beach. A bunch of kids wait in the shallows to collect and deliver it, feeling that maybe this is a better way to ride those waves than on the fishing boats.
After pushing their boat through breaking waves, a crew of fishermen drops one end of their nets and begins to make a wide arc down the coast, rolling out an enormous lattice. The birds circle above. On board, they sing songs to attract the particular fish they seek—tilapia, tuna, herring, or sole. They return to the beach and continue to sing as they pull the net in, heaving the rope to the rhythm of their song. In Africa, it is said that when the music stops, so does the dance.
After hours in the lineup, the dance must stop, surf giving way to sunburn, thirst, and hunger. We head in from an ocean quieted by the sunset. In the short time that we’ve been here, our crew has tripled in size. The local taxi drivers, shopkeepers, hotel managers, fisherman, and kids all help us load our boards onto the car. We pull away from the beach thinking about the contrasting rhythmic patterns of this place, its tensions, the lives these people live, and their music.
[Feature image: Photo by Sam Smith.]
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