“Toubab! Toubab!” A band of small children break the morning silence. They are following us at a respectful distance, just in case the ‘white people’ would suddenly turn on them.

More than 20 years have passed, yet these memories remain as vivid as if they occurred yesterday. A journey to Senegal, the cradle of the West African drum scene, changed my musical appreciation—and my life—forever. I still get goose bumps when I mentally relive the journey’s high point, our final night in the nation’s capital, Dakar. But more about that in a moment.

It was the culmination of my youthful exploration of West African drum and dance culture, a truly life-changing period of immersion into some of the greatest music on Earth. You couldn’t make it up, a tale of bribery, malaria, and ecstatic musical virtuoso.

Three years earlier, a chance encounter had allowed my dormant interest in non-Western music to blossom. As a young graduate student, several years still from having to complete my education and find a real job, everything seemed possible, and I was keen to expand my cultural horizons. A close friend invited me to attend an unusual concert by students of West African percussion. Pape Seck thus entered my life, just at the right time to have a truly life-changing impact.

Hailing from a family of West African griots—traditional musicians, historians, and storytellers—Pape had settled in the small university town in the northern Netherlands where I had made my home. Family obligations had led to his own momentous decision to move from his native Senegal to the more temperate climate of northern Europe.

The lead percussionist of a traditional West African drum ensemble, he supplemented his income as a music teacher. And what a teacher! Pape lived and breathed music: he was the epitome of rhythm. His entire life revolved around his emotional attachment to the djembe and sabar, two of the best-known indigenous drums of the Wolof and Serer people of Senegal, the Gambia, and Mauritania. His enthusiasm, virtuoso, and exuberant personality made him the central character in my newly discovered musical community. We were a motley bunch of budding musicians—students, townspeople, and free spirits—brought together by a love of rhythm and an almost spiritual need for escape into that trance-like state induced by the powerful, ancient West African melodies.

Fast forward to that fateful journey to Senegal. A week before Christmas, one early morning our Air Holland charter flight took off uneventfully from Amsterdam’s Schiphol airport en route to Banjul, the capital of the Gambia. On board, among the holidaymakers looking forward to a relaxing Christmas break at a variety of Gambian seaside resorts, a group of twelve students of the djembe eagerly anticipated a high-intensity West African drum clinic. Speeding high above Morocco’s Atlas Mountains and crossing the desolate Saharan desert spanning the territories of Western Sahara and Mauritania, the first shades of green announced our arrival at the northern reaches of the Sahel, just across the Sénégal River near the town of Saint-Louis. We touched down near the mouth of the Gambia River, long associated with Portuguese and British transatlantic slave trade.

First impressions tend to last longest. And indeed, a group of privileged, white Europeans, we were shocked by the tremendous contrast between the high-class, Western-owned resorts and the abject poverty that was so apparent a mere stone’s throw away.

On board a rickety minivan, our luggage piled high up on its roof, we carefully navigated our way across the rutted roads toward the Gambia’s southernmost border post. Expertly led by Pape Seck and three of his cousins, negotiations with the Gambian border officials for safe passage into the Casamance, Senegal’s southernmost territory, proceeded efficiently—undoubtedly oiled by a fraction of our joint expense account.

The fishing village of Diembéreng provided the perfect, idyllic setting for two weeks of intense djembe instruction, delightfully mixed with appearances of passing griots, shamans, and the cheerful local community that took us in as if we were long-lost family members. Outrigger canoes, half drawn upon the beach, were flanked by a large skeleton merchant ship long ago abandoned to the elements. It was quietly crumbling, slowly disappearing into the salty waves of the Atlantic Ocean.

This was traditional village life at its best: elderly fishermen patiently mending torn fishing nets, young boys fearlessly braving the waves to haul in the next load of freshly caught fish. Tradition pervaded local village life, from spiritual dance events honoring the dead—featuring the reed-covered Koumpo, a fearsome forest creature held in serious awe by the local villagers—to scenic vistas of beautifully dressed women grounding millet using oversized mortars.

Yet, modern life had clearly arrived, even this far south of the capital, with Coca Cola and its endearingly old-fashioned advertisement boards leading the pack. However, nothing made more of a lasting impact than the arrival of a Jali, a member of the fabled community of traditional kora-playing griots. The kora is arguably the most difficult West African musical instrument to master. But those who do acquire the skills command their audiences with the stringed lute’s eerie yet incredibly beautiful voice.

Listening quietly to the magical sounds coming from under the griot’s skilled fingers was such a welcome relief to our own swollen hands, the result of our almost incessant pounding on the djembes’ goat-skin rawhides. After a day or two of intense drumming, every drum beat feels like needle torture, no matter the copious amounts of shea butter applied to alleviate the impact. Two days into a three-week drum clinic and we started to despair—our sensitive Western hands were apparently not up to the task. But within a few days we realized that a minor miracle had occurred: gone was the pain and every stroke became firmer and more confident. Natural healing, so very welcome indeed.

The remainder of the first week passed as if we were dreaming happily—this was life, one with Nature and embedded in an all-or-nothing cultural experience. But Pape had a major surprise in store that would turn out to be truly awesome. The experience transformed my life and my musical appreciation. To date, I have never been able to put these thoughts in writing given my intense emotional investment.

The road trip to Dakar took the better part of a day, a surprising feat in itself given the questionable state of our vehicles. Once we had made our way through the Gambia once more, the vast empty expanses adorned by the occasional boabab tree eventually gave way to the outskirts of Dakar, one of West Africa’s major population centers, located on the breezy Cap-Vert peninsula. Dusty, shaken up, and rattled by the potholed roads, but in the highest spirits because of what was yet to come, we could finally disembark from the two minivans that had served us so well.

Our djembe instruction was temporarily replaced by seaside lessons on the sabar and the tamanin, the ‘talking drum’—both typically played using one bare hand and a stick, a curved one for maximum effect on the talking drum. Pape’s cousins and brothers were the true master drummers of their musical families. Although our progress in developing our skills had taken massive strides, we were deeply humbled when we realized that the skills of any of the local children far exceeded our own newly discovered musical abilities. All of our efforts and instruction had been leading up to a major showdown in front of the entire local community; a welcome-home party for Pape and indeed a huge honor for his students.

That final night in Dakar will stay with me for the rest of my life.

A hearty meal in the village square was soon followed by the onset of rhythmic drumming, gradually increasing in intensity. First the women and children, then the men and boys lost all of their reservations and joined into a swirling, whirling, and colorful display of musical delight. All present, drummers, dancers, and audience alike, soon became captivated by a trance-like state induced by the incessant beating of the drums. The evening passed in a blur, a sea of movement, sound, and musical ecstasy. We were now truly part of the extended family, national differences forgotten, cultural backgrounds aligned, the language barrier gone. Humanity at its best and most basic. I honestly don’t know how long it lasted, but I do remember eventually turning into my bed in our rented house on the village square.

Raw, overwhelming emotions. A flood of hot tears. I couldn’t stop them, they came freely and I cried for a long time. Initially, I was embarrassed, until I noticed that my roommate was also emotionally overwhelmed—in addition to what was undoubtedly contributed by his malaria-induced fever. Never before had either of us experienced such powerful emotions, triggered by our all-encompassing immersion in the natural rhythms of one of the oldest forms of music—what a night and what a tremendous experience.

That night I truly fell in love with the West African drum. Never before, nor ever afterward have I been able to re-capture those emotions. This is the true treasure I guard most closely. I have long lost touch with Pape Seck, completed my graduate studies, moved across the world a few times, traveled extensively to remote corners of the globe, experienced many music-fuelled friendships, got married, and landed a fantastic job or two, or three. Yet, that fateful night in Dakar stands out beyond a doubt as the single most impressive event in my life, the night when the toubab truly became West African in spirit and at heart.

– Richard de Grijs