DANCING IN AFRICA Back in 1990, going to Africa seemed the natural thing to do. After all I had been studying African dance in a Manhattan studio for many years and was passionate about it. I should say “addicted”. For, I would reluctantly, and almost never, miss a class.
“I will not come this week-end,” I would occasionally say to my dancing companions. “Unfortunately, I was invited to the beach.”
And worse, they would nod in sympathy. For they knew, as I did, that I would be missing a terrific class or two: the exhilaration, the challenge, the togetherness, the live, electrifying drumming... what was the beach compared to this?

So I did know something about the power of rhythm and the beauty of the Sabar Dances of the Wolof of Senegal when I embarked on my first trip there. What I did not expect was “Africa”, the reality of the continent itself. I had so far only seen the dances “out of context” taken away from the refined ritual that surrounds them, away from the stunning beauty and talent of Senegalese women, the intoxicating smell of “shurai” perfume, the sounds of the Wolof language that fill the air with a special vibrancy, in a word, the atmosphere, or the “real” thing.

The first Sabar event I attended was an overwhelming experience that filled me with admiration and awe. When a Sabar is announced in Dakar, Senegal’s capital, some chairs are brought out to the streets and set up around a rectangular space. Things thereafter build up slowly. Then, mysteriously, the space starts filling up. Drummers appear, the whole neighborhood comes out. Superbly attired women slowly make their entrance and with appropriate nonchalance, settle around the dancing circle. There they remain composed, perfectly still, almost imperial, until the drumming changes it all. When the dance starts, they get up in turn, impatiently discard their fashionable high-heel shoes and with incredible exuberance enter “Guew bi”, the dancing circle. They move towards the drummers, playfully perform wild, breathless dance steps, improvise unexpected variations or a hip movement that delights the crowd, and go back to their seats.
I was totally taken. I liked everything about the dancers: their control, the way they moved with unselfconscious grace; the way they left the dancing circle with casual disdain even after the most provocative steps; the way they kept rearranging their beautiful “boubous” around their shoulders as if it were part of some unwritten choreography. Sabar dances involve intricate, fast, high spirited leg and arm movements but the dancers always seem to deliberately hold their heads up high, thus projecting inner calm and dignity.
Rhythms change, dancers go back and forth the whole evening, challenging and being challenged by drummers. And then, unpredictably, the drumming stops. The crowd disperses. Soon, there is no one left in the “Guew”.
Of course, I was too awestruck to dance that first time. But later, I did. The Senegalese welcomed it as a sign of my appreciation. I was indeed forever indebted: Africa had changed my life.

© Françoise Bouffault