|  |
1. Bach and the Masai
I was in Africa, watching the huge herds that roamed the Masai Mara preserve, along with their predators, the lions & cheetahs. I wanted to somehow celebrate all of them with music, and so reached for my violin. Focusing my eyes upon the animals covering the horizon, I began some Appalachian fiddle tunes.
I heard sounds from behind me – some Masai tribesmen were approaching. The Masai are an ancient nomadic people; they build temporary mud huts on their ancestral lands and tend their cattle. Modern life has had little impact on them. They smiled as they formed a small semi-circle in front of me. When I finished the tune, the oldest one spoke – just one word, heavily accented and very drawn-out, but I recognized it: “Niiice.”
I responded in English but no one understood. That one complimentary word, however, plus the mixture of curiosity and interest in their expressions encouraged me to play on. I launched into a square dance tune. Its steady beat set heads bobbing in time with the music.
When I finished, the same man spoke, again just a single word: “Gooood.”
I smiled, grateful that the music was providing me not only with an imagined link to the animals beyond, but also with an observable link to these good-spirited people directly in front of me. That’s when Bach entered my mind.
The violin and Western classical music were not known in this part of Kenya. I could tell that my audience liked the simple, rhythmic American folk tunes I had fiddled; but what would happen if I were to play some Bach?
I began a movement from one of his solo pieces. The Masai at first responded as before. But then I noticed that their expressions were changing. They became very quiet. Some leaned closer toward me. Their eyes in particular displayed an intensity of concentration not there before that seemed to grow as Bach’s music spun out its rich patterns and lovely melody.
When I finished, their spokesman took a deep breath. Again he spoke a single word. But he seemed to choose it more carefully this time, saying it slowly and with deep feeling: “Beeyootiful!!”
And then we all smiled together.
The wild animals I saw roaming the Kenyan plains were truly striking. Their grandeur dominated my thoughts the whole time I was there. But reflection has given me a different perspective. On one day, the most impressive animals were clearly the human ones – a musical master from 18th century Europe and the timeless Masai of Africa, joined together across extraordinary barriers of culture, language, and time, thanks to music.
I was in Africa, watching the huge herds that roamed the Masai Mara preserve, along with their predators, the lions & cheetahs. I wanted to somehow celebrate all of them with music, and so reached for my violin. Focusing my eyes upon the animals covering the horizon, I began some Appalachian fiddle tunes.
I heard sounds from behind me – some Masai tribesmen were approaching. The Masai are an ancient nomadic people; they build temporary mud huts on their ancestral lands and tend their cattle. Modern life has had little impact on them. They smiled as they formed a small semi-circle in front of me. When I finished the tune, the oldest one spoke – just one word, heavily accented and very drawn-out, but I recognized it: “Niiice.”
I responded in English but no one understood. That one complimentary word, however, plus the mixture of curiosity and interest in their expressions encouraged me to play on. I launched into a square dance tune. Its steady beat set heads bobbing in time with the music.
When I finished, the same man spoke, again just a single word: “Gooood.”
I smiled, grateful that the music was providing me not only with an imagined link to the animals beyond, but also with an observable link to these good-spirited people directly in front of me. That’s when Bach entered my mind.
The violin and Western classical music were not known in this part of Kenya. I could tell that my audience liked the simple, rhythmic American folk tunes I had fiddled; but what would happen if I were to play some Bach?
I began a movement from one of his solo pieces. The Masai at first responded as before. But then I noticed that their expressions were changing. They became very quiet. Some leaned closer toward me. Their eyes in particular displayed an intensity of concentration not there before that seemed to grow as Bach’s music spun out its rich patterns and lovely melody.
When I finished, their spokesman took a deep breath. Again he spoke a single word. But he seemed to choose it more carefully this time, saying it slowly and with deep feeling: “Beeyootiful!!”
And then we all smiled together.
The wild animals I saw roaming the Kenyan plains were truly striking. Their grandeur dominated my thoughts the whole time I was there. But reflection has given me a different perspective. On one day, the most impressive animals were clearly the human ones – a musical master from 18th century Europe and the timeless Masai of Africa, joined together across extraordinary barriers of culture, language, and time, thanks to music.
2. Song without words
I was in Kenya, able to appreciate the sound of the Samburu tribe’s language, but unable to understand a single word. I had an interpreter along when I met with a chief and village elders to talk about how they resolved problems within the tribe. I work as a mediator, and was hoping to gain some insight into the origins of mediation, perhaps even pick up a new technique or two from some old masters.
Sometimes the chief or a respected elder would help the disputants develop a mutually acceptable agreement. Sometimes he acted more like a judge, hearing both sides and then deciding who was right. The end result was usually a feast, a celebration of re-established harmony.
Afterward, I headed off to a wild animal reserve on another portion of their tribal land. Several hours later, I pulled the Jeep off the rough road to take a break in a small town halfway there. My attention was immediately drawn to a nearby commotion – a loud, animated argument between two Samburu women, tension on the faces of several onlookers, a screaming baby.
Here there was need for some mediation, but I felt blocked by cultural limitations. I had no words to offer. But I did have my fiddle, and I wondered….
I sat on a rock some distance away from the escalating discord and began to play, somewhat timidly, an American folk tune. Heads turned. There was a momentary pause in what had been non-stop shouting, then another.
Encouraged, I started to play louder; and the shouting began a steady decrescendo. By the time I was halfway into the tune, some of the onlookers were drifting over in my direction. Before I slid into the last note, the arguing had ended and the baby was no longer crying. I launched into another tune without stopping to catch my breath. The rest of the group moved toward me, eyeing me with curiosity.
I smiled. Several of the Samburus smiled back, then some began to clap along with the vigorous tune I was now fiddling. We grew into an increasingly festive crowd. I noticed a tentative grin from one of the combatants of earlier on; and when I saw the other join in the dancing which was now underway, my spirits soared.
About 30 minutes after it all began, I climbed back into the Jeep, returning the waving, smiling and laughter that were all around. It remains the most enjoyable mediation I’ve ever done, and I didn’t have to say one, single word.
I was in Kenya, able to appreciate the sound of the Samburu tribe’s language, but unable to understand a single word. I had an interpreter along when I met with a chief and village elders to talk about how they resolved problems within the tribe. I work as a mediator, and was hoping to gain some insight into the origins of mediation, perhaps even pick up a new technique or two from some old masters.
Sometimes the chief or a respected elder would help the disputants develop a mutually acceptable agreement. Sometimes he acted more like a judge, hearing both sides and then deciding who was right. The end result was usually a feast, a celebration of re-established harmony.
Afterward, I headed off to a wild animal reserve on another portion of their tribal land. Several hours later, I pulled the Jeep off the rough road to take a break in a small town halfway there. My attention was immediately drawn to a nearby commotion – a loud, animated argument between two Samburu women, tension on the faces of several onlookers, a screaming baby.
Here there was need for some mediation, but I felt blocked by cultural limitations. I had no words to offer. But I did have my fiddle, and I wondered….
I sat on a rock some distance away from the escalating discord and began to play, somewhat timidly, an American folk tune. Heads turned. There was a momentary pause in what had been non-stop shouting, then another.
Encouraged, I started to play louder; and the shouting began a steady decrescendo. By the time I was halfway into the tune, some of the onlookers were drifting over in my direction. Before I slid into the last note, the arguing had ended and the baby was no longer crying. I launched into another tune without stopping to catch my breath. The rest of the group moved toward me, eyeing me with curiosity.
I smiled. Several of the Samburus smiled back, then some began to clap along with the vigorous tune I was now fiddling. We grew into an increasingly festive crowd. I noticed a tentative grin from one of the combatants of earlier on; and when I saw the other join in the dancing which was now underway, my spirits soared.
About 30 minutes after it all began, I climbed back into the Jeep, returning the waving, smiling and laughter that were all around. It remains the most enjoyable mediation I’ve ever done, and I didn’t have to say one, single word.
