Bob Marley always makes me feel better when I feel bad. That's the highest compliment I can pay the work of any artist. I was on the bus earlier this week listening to some early Wailers (you know- the stuff that sounds like it was recorded in a cement mixer parked next to a chicken farm) and the world started to move and bop like my own personal music video. The passengers, driver, and street outside all seemed to sway to the music. I am seeing my own country with fresh eyes, because I have been away for a long time-three years in Africa plus spending the better part of 2006 in the forest. This is also one of the best things about being in a new country. Every place has its own rhythm. In the part of rural South Africa where I stayed the wind blew most of the time and provided the background sound to whatever was going on-sometimes a light breeze and sometimes a full blown sand storm beating against the window and causing the metal roof to bang against the bricks. Animals came and went: cows mooing ("Booooo"), goats bleating ("Mmmaaa."), dogs baking (Ho! Ho! Ho!), chickens clucking ("ko.ko.ko.ko.")-the indescribable sound of donkey sex. The scream of children's games and their accompanying arguments (It was a Goal! No, you are CRAZY!) The singing of grannies high on pot, homemade beer, or a particularly powerful sermon at the local Dutch Reform Church (or all three.) The heavy dance beat from the local pub accompanied by the click of balls on the snooker table (Your ball touched my ball! No, you are CRAZY!) The singing of women washing and the whip-crack snap of wet clothes just hung out to dry. The harsh rattle of minibus taxis and farm trucks on the washboard road. The bouncy Italianate sound of Setswana being spoken at full speed. The flap of canvas of a funeral tent being put up and taken down. The singing, praying, and march of sad feet in between. The squeak of a bore hole pump being worked and the rhythmic rush of water. The bray of professional wrestling or soap operas on a T.V. turned up too loud. The grinding crunch of soil against metal when digging a garden or filling a grave. And,the sweetest sound in the desert, RAIN-the next day you can almost hear the sound of the grass growing and the cattle getting fatter. Every place makes its own music if you stop and listen for a little while. What kind of music do you hear where you live? Today's picture captures an element of this rhythm. I drew it during one of my visits to Mma Rabotapi's traditional healer school (see South Africa # 2.)
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