‘’It’s all about the mousse!’’, he told me as he poured the syrupy black liquid into four tiny glasses on a tray. His knees tucked neatly under his ample cotton boubou, I could see, he took matters of the mousse seriously.
It was almost a meditation. Arm lifted high, the spout of the diminutive enamel teapot expertly aimed at the tea glass almost a metre below, he focused intently as he poured, lifting his arm up and down to build up the bubbly layer of mousse. Once all the glasses had been filled, he promptly took each one and poured it back into the tea pot. He went on to do this twice more, then looked up and smiled.
Now satisfied that the mousse, a frothy layer of foam, was thick enough, he was ready to serve. It was a parched, 40 degrees plus, Tuesday afternoon. At 4pm, the sun was at last, abating preparing to usher dusk into the dusty town of Djenne in Mali.
My travel companion, Idrissa, had suggested we stop at the tea spot for a much needed rest after haggling the day away at the Djenne market since dawn. Idrissa’s favourite tea maker, Abdou, was renowned for his tea-making acumen, authenticated by the layer of mousse that he meticulously created in his tea ritual.
We had come at the right time. The Chinese gunpowder green tea leaves had been bubbling slowly on the gas flame for at least 15 minutes before we got there. We arrived in time to see Abdou perform round one of a tea ceremony - his ritual offering of liquid relief in the scorched desert sands of the Sahel. Abdou did nothing else from morning till sunset.
His tea house, rustic, minimalist and enigmatically cool, was an oasis of calm in the bustling Djenne marketplace. Abdou’s tea was as a famous as the mystical stories he shared with market traders and shoppers alike as they trailed through the tea house all day, every day.
We were hot, the tea was hot and it was good and incredibly refreshing! The mousse, an avant-gout to the dark, sweet heady tea- Abdou style - was still in the glass after the two swift sips it took to drink. Real mousse always stays behind. A quick rinse of the glasses, a little more water added to the bubbling pot and round two was on its way! Abdou raised his arm and poured, building the mousse, filling each glass and pouring it back into the pot again and again. We stayed till round three (le troisième), each time the tea was lighter, less sweet and even more refreshing.
Tradition has it that unless you really have to run, it is proper to stay and drink till the third round. This way, the tea will sate your thirst and you will bless the tea maker and the house in return for the blessings bestowed on you through the ritual.
Idrissa was a tea connoisseur and master tea maker. As we drove to his home in a Djenne suburb a few kilometres away, I heard how his father, now late, had taught him the art of making a good cup of tea. Tea was a daily evening ritual in the communal homestead of three generations of Idrissa’s lineage. Much more than a choreographed series of elegant arm movements, the art of the tea is bound up in the tea maker’s intent to bring peace to the drinkers, to nurture the spirit through good conversation and to create an atmosphere for soul connections. African time at its best!
The tea ceremony at Idrissa’s family home came after supper. This was a time when, after a hearty meal, the family, kids and adults alike, kicked back on the low-living mattress-loungers that lined three sides of the living room.
Idrissa took pleasure in making tea most nights. It was his way of relaxing and connecting with the family. Friends often came, and the hours flew by as stories, laughter and polity went on way into the early hours. No-one would never dream of leaving until they had the troisième. It was never mentioned, just understood.
Taking up the baton after his father passed, Idrissa prepared his tea spot in the corner of the room with measure. Incense burning, he sat on a low stool, tucked his legs under his boubou, much like Abdou, and placed the pot on coals. An uncle, visiting from a neighbouring town sparked the conversation and as if summoned, he began to talk about his brother, Idrissa’s father’s love for tea. Badara, the family griot animated the room with anecdotes of family history and songs that were family favourites.
A delicious sense of calm enveloped the room as the potent smell of incense grew stronger and the atmosphere palpably balmy as the evening drew on.In the corner of my eye, I saw Idrissa angling the teapot above the row of glasses, and just like Adbou had done earlier, but with a touch more dramatic flair begin to build the mousse that would later stay in the glass.
As he passed the tray around for the troisième, I had journeyed to other lands, laughed with ancestors and visioned the perfect future. A space in time where African (tea) time was practiced as ritual affirmation of the sacred time that we need to simply be.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
RITUAL ECSTACY
The escalating rise of issue-driven people movements is cause for celebration. Though many movements have existed over the past century, the past couple of years have seen a groundswell of everyday people who yearn to belong to something with a conscience.
From slow food and slow thought to Big O’s, clearly, the intensely human need to experience the bond of community, shared values and common identity is mounting in the wake of the global energy shift.
As we heed the call to wear authentic hearts on our sleeves, the common threads that unite humanity are woven through joyous giving. What better way ignite a renewed sense of purpose and to build our new earth?
Let’s give kudos to the pioneers who lead by creating the space for others to grow as they tread softly in the brave new world. Willing to play their part with quiet tenacity, they’re banking on the prospect of creating a bliss-filled world – the ultimate luxury.
I’m excited by the endless possibilities that arise when I claim joy as a mantra.
As I look around, I see many people who are always so serious. Sure, life throws a curved ball now and then but where has all the laughter gone? Between swine flu paranoia and talk of the last days, it’s easy to ride on somber smiles and get lost in a world where big old belly laughs are sadly, a rarity.
Recently, I was unwittingly thrown into a laughter zone when an old university friend flew through Joburg for a weekend. Over 48 hours, with little sleep in-between, we retraced steps, rekindled old memories and celebrated life’s milestones.
In the six years since we last met, life has brought joy, love, pain, sacrifice and measures of accomplishment that we used to dream about. Undoubtedly, we’re both stronger and well, more textured human beings for it. Now, on the verge of our 40s, we made a pact to recapture and live by the carefree bliss that governed our lives two decades ago.
Back then, it was Jazzi B’s Soul II Soul movement that rocked our world. On Thursday nights at a cavernous club called The Fridge in Brixton, London, we danced till we literally dropped; spirits high on bottled water, good music and fidelity to a philosophy of unity of purpose, love and peace. Our Thursday night ritual at The Fridge was an expression of pure ecstasy.
As dusk fell softly that Sunday evening, I had reclaimed that high. The laughter and the memories had nourished my soul. It was cleansing, healing and restorative.
I can see why the laughter movement is gaining momentum all over the globe. A short decade ago, who could have imagined paying someone to coach us in doing what is probably the most natural thing in the world – laugh? Laughter clinics are workshops designed to help us regain a sense of self and life balance.
Last year, as far afield as Jamaica, I picked up a book called Free & Laughing by Marguerite Orane. Written just ahead of the laughter workshop boom, her book is a series of anecdotes of everyday happenings. Her perspective invites a Free & Laughing world view seen through the spiritual insights in everyday moments.
No surprises to learn that her workshops are a hit across the water in L.A., Miami and other parts of the US. But it is surprising to learn that even in sunny Jamaica, where the cool breeze rustles palm trees on pristine sands, Orane is in demand for her quirky approach to making sense of life.
Her life philosophy is a salve part of what is evidently a global thirst for joyful living. Raise the bar from joy to bliss and we’re in headrush zone. What then of creating natural ecstatic highs on a regular basis?
In some spaces, ecstacy conjures up salacious winks or visions of blue pills. Scratch below the surface and we see how we’ve inadvertently co-created an anti-ecstatic culture where we are compelled to make decisions about deciding to be ecstatic as a collective meditation.
A couple of notches up from happy, bliss or ecstasy is a tall order. Luxury purchases and holidays can be blissful no doubt! But bonafide ecstatic living calls for a deeper commitment to ritual, hi-frequency life choices. It takes work!
June this year saw The Big O Day, a day dedicated to ‘uniting the world in pleasure’. Delete visions of mass orgies and returns to free-love hedonism. The Big O Day comes from another movement created to reawaken the divine feminine energy in the earth by inviting its followers to consciously engage in at least 15 minutes of pleasure every day. Though sex is not ruled out, the intention is to recognize and evoke the joy that comes from simple pleasures in life. It’s about bliss. In short, ecstasy!
In a perfect world, ecstatic living will move past buzzword status to being an integral, deeply ingrained part of our soul tapestry nurtured from inside to full blast expression on the outside. Ritual is the key.
From slow food and slow thought to Big O’s, clearly, the intensely human need to experience the bond of community, shared values and common identity is mounting in the wake of the global energy shift.
As we heed the call to wear authentic hearts on our sleeves, the common threads that unite humanity are woven through joyous giving. What better way ignite a renewed sense of purpose and to build our new earth?
Let’s give kudos to the pioneers who lead by creating the space for others to grow as they tread softly in the brave new world. Willing to play their part with quiet tenacity, they’re banking on the prospect of creating a bliss-filled world – the ultimate luxury.
I’m excited by the endless possibilities that arise when I claim joy as a mantra.
As I look around, I see many people who are always so serious. Sure, life throws a curved ball now and then but where has all the laughter gone? Between swine flu paranoia and talk of the last days, it’s easy to ride on somber smiles and get lost in a world where big old belly laughs are sadly, a rarity.
Recently, I was unwittingly thrown into a laughter zone when an old university friend flew through Joburg for a weekend. Over 48 hours, with little sleep in-between, we retraced steps, rekindled old memories and celebrated life’s milestones.
In the six years since we last met, life has brought joy, love, pain, sacrifice and measures of accomplishment that we used to dream about. Undoubtedly, we’re both stronger and well, more textured human beings for it. Now, on the verge of our 40s, we made a pact to recapture and live by the carefree bliss that governed our lives two decades ago.
Back then, it was Jazzi B’s Soul II Soul movement that rocked our world. On Thursday nights at a cavernous club called The Fridge in Brixton, London, we danced till we literally dropped; spirits high on bottled water, good music and fidelity to a philosophy of unity of purpose, love and peace. Our Thursday night ritual at The Fridge was an expression of pure ecstasy.
As dusk fell softly that Sunday evening, I had reclaimed that high. The laughter and the memories had nourished my soul. It was cleansing, healing and restorative.
I can see why the laughter movement is gaining momentum all over the globe. A short decade ago, who could have imagined paying someone to coach us in doing what is probably the most natural thing in the world – laugh? Laughter clinics are workshops designed to help us regain a sense of self and life balance.
Last year, as far afield as Jamaica, I picked up a book called Free & Laughing by Marguerite Orane. Written just ahead of the laughter workshop boom, her book is a series of anecdotes of everyday happenings. Her perspective invites a Free & Laughing world view seen through the spiritual insights in everyday moments.
No surprises to learn that her workshops are a hit across the water in L.A., Miami and other parts of the US. But it is surprising to learn that even in sunny Jamaica, where the cool breeze rustles palm trees on pristine sands, Orane is in demand for her quirky approach to making sense of life.
Her life philosophy is a salve part of what is evidently a global thirst for joyful living. Raise the bar from joy to bliss and we’re in headrush zone. What then of creating natural ecstatic highs on a regular basis?
In some spaces, ecstacy conjures up salacious winks or visions of blue pills. Scratch below the surface and we see how we’ve inadvertently co-created an anti-ecstatic culture where we are compelled to make decisions about deciding to be ecstatic as a collective meditation.
A couple of notches up from happy, bliss or ecstasy is a tall order. Luxury purchases and holidays can be blissful no doubt! But bonafide ecstatic living calls for a deeper commitment to ritual, hi-frequency life choices. It takes work!
June this year saw The Big O Day, a day dedicated to ‘uniting the world in pleasure’. Delete visions of mass orgies and returns to free-love hedonism. The Big O Day comes from another movement created to reawaken the divine feminine energy in the earth by inviting its followers to consciously engage in at least 15 minutes of pleasure every day. Though sex is not ruled out, the intention is to recognize and evoke the joy that comes from simple pleasures in life. It’s about bliss. In short, ecstasy!
In a perfect world, ecstatic living will move past buzzword status to being an integral, deeply ingrained part of our soul tapestry nurtured from inside to full blast expression on the outside. Ritual is the key.
All Hail the Dyrianke!
Senegal, the West African country that I call my spiritual home, always conjures up a certain type of magic deep within.
Whether I’m travelling, shopping or in R & R mode with family, there’s a certain word that constantly crops up, almost following me where ever I go. The word dyrianke (pronounced di-ri-an-kay), rings in my ears from the minute I land.
Seemingly a compliment, possibly an overture, I hear it everywhere. It’s almost as if the word dyrianke instantly replaces my name.
Bewildered at first, I wondered whether this was a thinly veiled sales pitch – as those who most vehemently insisted on calling me dyrianke were market traders.
Unbridled joy oozed through their aura as their lips curled, smiling, as they pulled up a chair for the dyrianke, they ordered drinks and snacks to my hearts desire. As I pondered over the array of fabulous indigo fabrics, beautifully tie-dyed to deep intensity, I learnt they were ‘over-dyed’ so as to leave a shiny hue of inky blue against the skin on first wear.
This was typical and appropriate for a dyrianke I heard. Better yet, I was offered ‘premiere qualite’ galila. An even more richly dyed and highly starched cotton, not so easy on the pocket and sure-fire gorgeous. Of course, I was assured, just perfect for a dyrianke. I left nearly an hour later, with meters of fabric in hand, a much lighter purse and a deep seated smile.
A little later the same day, I was drinking tea amongst a group of women friends, I heard it again. As they dug into the history of my nomad past, they hummed as they tried to place me, locate me within their framework of womanhood. Ostensibly, the only place appropriate was in the league of the dyrianke.
I came to learn it was a heavy title to carry. It is bestowed upon you. You don’t learn how to become a dyrianke, either you have it or you don’t.
The dyrianke is a woman, mystical in her charm and the epitome of femininity. A self-actualised, alluring, expressive and generous spirit who leaves people – men and women - gaping in her wake. Now that’s power! They told me again, it’s not something you can buy, it’s something you are. It’s within you.
Mesmerised at this engaging approach to beauty from the inside, I wanted to know more. She boasts a corpulent figure – a real dyrianke needs flesh on those bones – her clothes, waves of beautiful cloth, adorned in BIG accessories (bling ain’t got nothing on her!), wafting in ambrosia scent, she invests time, money and love in herself. Those lucky enough to be within her inner circle will experience the erotic power of the dyrianke. Not commercialised eros, hers is an erotica that is honed on ecstatic living realised through a jealously guarded cachet of secret artillery (waist beads, bespoke incense....it goes on).
The plot thickened as I heard about how bonafide dyriankes walk with an unmistakable gait. The rhythm illustrated in the very word, dhirri (Wolof for drag) means she would never rush. Not only is it not becoming but it’s because she has everything under control.
Highly likely, those more accomplished and mature dyri’s, would probably have hand maidens at her side. Not as some form of indentured labour but by as young apprentices eager to learn the deeply cultured ways of the dyrianke. Look at it as skills transfer and ultimately, empowerment!
It all started to make sense to me; the market vendors had picked up on my love for all things textured and luxurious. Fair enough, so there probably was a little sales talk there. But what my tea drinking companions didn’t realise was that they had opened up a door into new dimensions of femininity that were eons away from my multi-cultural experience of women and womanhood.
Things got a little heady. These were women celebrating other women. They desired and upheld notions of femininity that were far away from the issues driven (Western) feminist agenda of gender equity.
Possibly it is Senegal’s matrilineal heritage that enables such a seemingly natural aptitude to grooming, beauty, eroticism and ultimately power. The notion of the dyrianke, real deal or imagined, offers a headspace where women dare to explore and unashamedly express, the often repressed authority which is innate.
It would be naïve to think that gender inequity is not an issue in any country across the world – not least in Senegal. However, it seems clear to me that such issues can be more effectively dealt with when women themselves come with a sense of dignity and affirmation that is intact.
As we celebrate women’s month in South Africa, I wonder where our sense of womanhood sits in a country where rape, battery and violence against women is all pervasive. There may be much to celebrate in terms of legislation. However, seems to me that a few lessons in self-affirmation from the dyrianke sisters in Senegal may pave the way for real celebration this month. Bayete! Dyrianke!
Whether I’m travelling, shopping or in R & R mode with family, there’s a certain word that constantly crops up, almost following me where ever I go. The word dyrianke (pronounced di-ri-an-kay), rings in my ears from the minute I land.
Seemingly a compliment, possibly an overture, I hear it everywhere. It’s almost as if the word dyrianke instantly replaces my name.
Bewildered at first, I wondered whether this was a thinly veiled sales pitch – as those who most vehemently insisted on calling me dyrianke were market traders.
Unbridled joy oozed through their aura as their lips curled, smiling, as they pulled up a chair for the dyrianke, they ordered drinks and snacks to my hearts desire. As I pondered over the array of fabulous indigo fabrics, beautifully tie-dyed to deep intensity, I learnt they were ‘over-dyed’ so as to leave a shiny hue of inky blue against the skin on first wear.
This was typical and appropriate for a dyrianke I heard. Better yet, I was offered ‘premiere qualite’ galila. An even more richly dyed and highly starched cotton, not so easy on the pocket and sure-fire gorgeous. Of course, I was assured, just perfect for a dyrianke. I left nearly an hour later, with meters of fabric in hand, a much lighter purse and a deep seated smile.
A little later the same day, I was drinking tea amongst a group of women friends, I heard it again. As they dug into the history of my nomad past, they hummed as they tried to place me, locate me within their framework of womanhood. Ostensibly, the only place appropriate was in the league of the dyrianke.
I came to learn it was a heavy title to carry. It is bestowed upon you. You don’t learn how to become a dyrianke, either you have it or you don’t.
The dyrianke is a woman, mystical in her charm and the epitome of femininity. A self-actualised, alluring, expressive and generous spirit who leaves people – men and women - gaping in her wake. Now that’s power! They told me again, it’s not something you can buy, it’s something you are. It’s within you.
Mesmerised at this engaging approach to beauty from the inside, I wanted to know more. She boasts a corpulent figure – a real dyrianke needs flesh on those bones – her clothes, waves of beautiful cloth, adorned in BIG accessories (bling ain’t got nothing on her!), wafting in ambrosia scent, she invests time, money and love in herself. Those lucky enough to be within her inner circle will experience the erotic power of the dyrianke. Not commercialised eros, hers is an erotica that is honed on ecstatic living realised through a jealously guarded cachet of secret artillery (waist beads, bespoke incense....it goes on).
The plot thickened as I heard about how bonafide dyriankes walk with an unmistakable gait. The rhythm illustrated in the very word, dhirri (Wolof for drag) means she would never rush. Not only is it not becoming but it’s because she has everything under control.
Highly likely, those more accomplished and mature dyri’s, would probably have hand maidens at her side. Not as some form of indentured labour but by as young apprentices eager to learn the deeply cultured ways of the dyrianke. Look at it as skills transfer and ultimately, empowerment!
It all started to make sense to me; the market vendors had picked up on my love for all things textured and luxurious. Fair enough, so there probably was a little sales talk there. But what my tea drinking companions didn’t realise was that they had opened up a door into new dimensions of femininity that were eons away from my multi-cultural experience of women and womanhood.
Things got a little heady. These were women celebrating other women. They desired and upheld notions of femininity that were far away from the issues driven (Western) feminist agenda of gender equity.
Possibly it is Senegal’s matrilineal heritage that enables such a seemingly natural aptitude to grooming, beauty, eroticism and ultimately power. The notion of the dyrianke, real deal or imagined, offers a headspace where women dare to explore and unashamedly express, the often repressed authority which is innate.
It would be naïve to think that gender inequity is not an issue in any country across the world – not least in Senegal. However, it seems clear to me that such issues can be more effectively dealt with when women themselves come with a sense of dignity and affirmation that is intact.
As we celebrate women’s month in South Africa, I wonder where our sense of womanhood sits in a country where rape, battery and violence against women is all pervasive. There may be much to celebrate in terms of legislation. However, seems to me that a few lessons in self-affirmation from the dyrianke sisters in Senegal may pave the way for real celebration this month. Bayete! Dyrianke!
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