Guillermo de Llera Blanes

Inet-md Instituto de Etnomusicologia - Centro de Estudos em Música e Dança - NOVA- FCSH Universidade de Lisboa, Portugal

The sun beats down on the crowded streets of Maputo, the humid air filled with the melodies of languages unknown to me. In the capital of Mozambique, the nation’s languages and dialects are spoken interchangeably in an uninterrupted song. Without fuss, residents glide between them according to first tongue commonality, slipping between Bantu languages, Gujarati, Hindi, Arabic, and the official Portuguese—the language of the old ruling class. Origins are many, but now, to me, they all feel fully and unequivocally metropolitan in their essence. The hustle and bustle of the city is in full swing. Cars line up at intersections waiting for the light to change. People hurry to and fro, most with a destination or purpose, the rest dawdling as they pass time in conversation. Vendors call out in what I take in as sung dialects from colorful stalls that are bursting with ripe avocados, bananas, mangoes, papayas, and a multitude of other fruits. Here, music colors life. Busses rattle past, packed tightly with passengers fanning themselves in the squashing heat. The sounding afternoon: a cacophony of honking horns, wailing sirens, and squealing tires. In my mind, I play with a concept wherein fieldwork is a world—so rich with experiential value—that scientific findings or intellectual theorizations stand as mere windows or minute portions of a greater whole that usually goes untold. Surely there is a space in which creative writing can express our embodiments and convey how we ethnographers are physically, emotionally, and intellectually intertwined with the field. This is of value, worth telling, for it matters and informs our research. From the very moment we set foot in it we are meshed with the field, entangled. We are the field and the field is us, just like we are the data and the data is us. Both are entwined, at once ‘subjects’ and ‘objects.’

As I walk within the urban stridency, focused intently on recognizing hidden cyclical and linear rhythms of this city, looking for distinctive displays of cultural patternings, I cannot help but feel out of place. Despite this being my fourth field-trip I still feel foreign through and through. People walk by, passively, as if they don’t see me, the pulsing foot traffic swirling in a whirlwind of activity. Noticing that the sidewalk I am walking on is cracked and uneven, the pavement warm, the air muggy, I think of the cooling shade as heaven, the breeze from a fan as utopian, but ironically the smothering heat, that torrid blistering heat still feels refreshing because it is new to me. A scent of exhaust fumes mixes with the smell of old and decay—of hidden colonial histories willingly ignored—melting into an unforeseeable future for the city. A tomorrow that feeds on today. The sweat of its denizens is like the salty essence of its lifeblood. Yet I get the impression that what is not forgotten here is the music; it is everywhere, it fills the air: Marrabenta, Pandza, Kizomba, Amapiano, Afro-Pop, Hip-Hop... They all appear from nowhere and everywhere: whizzing by in passing cars, flowing out into the street from open house or apartment windows, or from the radios stationed at almost every doorstep, blaring by their owners, the seated guards.

My average height lets me slip easily through the crowds, and barely be noticed, if not for the relative pallor of my skin. My dark brown eyes, those are the same as most here, and they dart behind rectangular glasses, scanning the movements of the people around me. I brush a hand through my short black hair, damp with sweat, thinking: This place is alive with the music of everyday life in Maputo. As an ethnomusicologist, I cannot help but be fascinated by it all. As a musician, I simply want in; to participate from within, and be enveloped by; to look beneath the surface and make it part of me. Yet as a person I secretly yearn not only for the music, but also the life which gives rise to the music, and the dance.

Green leaves, and the scent of flowers in the trees reminds me that winter is summer and summer is winter on the other hemisphere. Back home in Portugal it is cold. Entertaining myself with these redundant thoughts, I pause by a fruit stand and pick up a mango, smelling for a telling sweetness. “How much?” I ask in a halting Portuguese I only hope is not too slow and patronizing due to the differences in accents. The vendor, a short elderly woman of regal posture and a bright batik headdress, names her price with a gap-toothed smile. She’s clearly having a laugh, taunting me. The crows also seem to taunt me in a complicity of sorts, cawing away from up in the trees. The lady gives me that grandmotherly feeling, and I feel an urge to hug her. I don’t, for I wouldn’t want to unknowingly offend with my outsider clumsiness—lest I remind her of the abusive bosses of yesteryear. We haggle for a minute, finally settling on a sum that leaves us both satisfied and I know I’ve been had, but I don’t mind it one bit, for my mind is filled with recurring music and my spirits are high. As I bring out payment, my thoughts turn to the sounds of a Mbira I heard earlier, played by my friend and collaborator May Mbira.

The round metallic sounds made by the tines of the Mbira when transmitted through a pickup and layered into a digital loop-station breathe with what I can only interpret as one of the moving rhythms of this contemporary city. The music of the traditional-modern echoes in successive loops which repeat but are never twice the same. They are layered in a hypnotic web of melodious rhythm that flows in a captivating circularity: the make-do of an indigenous futurism that blends tradition with creative vision. I itch to understand the local story behind that instrument, its significance woven into the culture of Maputo through the actions of a handful of brave individuals that carry that baton into the future. There aren’t many. Yet, more than anything, I wish to observe the reinventings and reimaginings of tradition by artists who play the Mbira in contemporary settings, contexts, and mindsets, and pay homage to the past by creating new futures. I wish to observe the birth of tomorrow. There are so many more musical expressions to explore here. So much unlearned, or misunderstood, and so little time left, and I do not think of myself as a tourist-academic—though I hate to admit, it is possible that I unknowingly am, although I sincerely hope not.

Clutching the mango in one hand, I hurry on home. Although it is getting late, my work has only just begun for the day. There is still writing to do. There is always writing to do. I weave through the crowds, focused on the Mbira loops dancing within my head, hearing them again and wondering if I have already taken creative liberties and changed them. I am so lost in thought that I fail to notice the young boy dart out in front of me until we collide. Impact. Shock. Awkwardness. Shyness.

“So sorry!” I say, reaching out to steady the child, holding him by the shoulder.

The boy looks up at me with wide eyes, then breaks into an untidy grin, revealing two missing front teeth. He says something rapidly in a dialect which I don’t understand, and I simply smile and ruffle the boy’s hair before continuing on my way, oblivious. The encounter leaves me energized, as I cherish any kind of connection, fleeting as they are, for they deepen that narrative between researcher and place that is fieldwork.

The sun is now lowering in the sky as I make my way through the busy streets, remembering that there is a pressing need to pick up a few groceries before heading back to my apartment. I had completely forgotten, as one does. At a small supermarket, I grab some essentials: a loaf of bread, a few canned tins, some bottled water, and a six-pack of my preferred local black beer, Laurentina—one of my favorite guilty pleasures. Already thinking of cracking open a cold brew, I tuck the items into a plastic bag and head out, thrilled by the prospect.

The road is crowded with cars waiting at the intersection. I step off the curb into the road without thinking, lost in thought as I cross the street, reflecting on the day’s events. At this time I am mentally cataloging the recordings and information I have collected. I am eager to analyze them further, find the things I missed at first and listen to the Mbira being played.

Halfway across, I suddenly realize that all the vehicles around me are motionless. The traffic is at a complete standstill. I freeze for a second, looking sideways at the driver in the closest car, without taking in his facial expression, then I relax. With everything stopped, it seems safe to continue crossing.

As I step forward, the world around me grinds to a sudden halt. Every vehicle is suspended in time and space like a being in a still-frame or an eerie museum exhibit. The air is there, only different. The music has stopped and there is only the vacuum of pure silence, but my sight is sharp and everything is in perfect focus. Heart drumming and racing, I glance sideways at the driver of the car closest to me, to finally recognize his face as a mask of horror, eyes wide open. He realizes that I have completely failed to recognize that I am in the middle of a two-way road, hidden from oncoming traffic by the grid-lock, and walking straight into the path of a moving Jeep that hastes in my direction.

There is a burst of adrenaline swelling from somewhere within, and panic overcomes me as I realize something is terribly wrong. Goosebumps rise as waves of electricity travel along my skin, and in what feels like a split second all my senses kick into overdrive. My intuition screams danger. I can again hear the music of the city breathing. I perceive the Jeep’s engine revving like a roar. I feel the rush of air pressure as the vehicle speeds ever closer to impact. I am here, I am whole, I am ready, but there is no time to move fully out of the way. Pain is imminent.

Acting on instinct I lean my body backward to reduce the collision impact, rotating sideways to attempt the escape. As the Jeep thunders by, it clips my elbow, sending me further into rotation. Now directly in the thick of it, the vehicle and I occupy the same space in place and time. I sense the back wheel running over my foot, causing me to lose all balance. I spiral even further out of control. As the wheel releases my foot, my shoe flings into the air, landing on the sidewalk a few good meters away—where I could have been had I paid attention. Mid-spin, with what I like to think of as reflexes honed in my youthful skateboarding years, I swing my arm around to prevent the grocery bag from smashing into the ground and brace my fall with the other, landing hard with one knee into the pavement, wincing as pain shoots up my leg. The Jeep screeches to a halt just past me, looking to me like a bull no longer enraged after striking.

I feel the pavement, worn with age but still solid and strong, roughly textured under my fingertips, so much so that my hands tingle. My left elbow is stinging from the scrape. My right hand is still clenching the grocery bag handle, my left hand empty, and I am secretly proud that I have saved the beer, a testament of my love for that elixir, but my leg aches. Gingerly I get to my feet, feeling like a careless fool and trying to look otherwise, testing my weight on the injured leg— I’m bruised and scraped, but not broken. The driver who has witnessed the event firsthand looks aghast from behind the car glass. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” I say in gestures, waving him off to make it seem like this big thing was not a big thing at all.

Limping the rest of the way across the street, I sigh as I pick up my shoe, drenched in sweat, feeling slightly guilty as I remember my children back home, but knowing they will get a kick out of this story. Maybe it is my ego that is bruised. Although I can’t deny the thrill that had coursed through me in that brief moment of danger, it is a sobering adventure. A reminder of how fragile life could be. How one must keep his wits about him at all times, but also, how an accident like this, when away from the security of being in a place where we know what to do and where to go, enhances our sense of mortality. It makes us feel frail; defenseless even, alone without any safety-nets in our explorations.

Academics who take to the field are also adventurers, I think to myself, far from the stereotypical book-worm, or couch-thinker many would assume one to be. Oh well, so much for an uneventful shopping trip. But I can’t deny the thrill that courses through me, the intensity of that brief moment reminds me that I am still very much alive.

I now notice the halted Jeep, still stopped by the curb, motor running. The rear escape churns up smoke. The vehicle is clean, whole, unaffected. Above, the crows still caw, the leaves still dance with the occasional light breeze, and again I hear music inundating the street. Everything is back to normal. Nothing more to see here. As the adrenaline ebbs within me, the pain in my leg grows sharper, and as I approach the Jeep I glance down and see blood seeping through a rip in my pants.

“Are you alright sir?” says a voice obviously young in years.

I see two young adults staring at me from the car with obvious concern and telling nervous preoccupation. Inside, I giggle at sounds of Kizomba coming out of the car radio, the groove and romantic lyrical content in a clear and stark contrast with the lingering mood of the moment.

Almost distasteful, but funny. Realizing how disheveled I must appear to them, shoe in one hand, limping and bleeding, after narrowly avoiding getting smashed beyond repair by their car, I chuckle.

“I’m fine, just a scratch, but my shoe, I think that one took a beating,” I say, giving them a reassuring and hopefully comforting smile. “Maybe it is a lesson to look both ways before you cross the street, unlike me just then, but thank you so much for waiting to find out if I’m okay.” The young people nervously smile back. They were at a loss for words but looked relieved that this strange foreigner was not seriously hurt. Seemingly, they too will leave with a story.

Taking a deep breath, I steady myself. I may have to cut my exploring short today to tend to my wounds. Possibly? No, with all certainty! I will be polishing off the six-pack this very night. I definitely need that drink now. So I limp tentatively down the sidewalk, wincing with each step, the adrenaline now fully worn off and the pain in my leg growing ever so sharper. I need to get home, clean myself up, and sit, or lie down, or both consecutively and probably in quick succession.

As I glance back across the busy road, I notice that the driver who observed the whole thing has doubled back and now drives alongside me slowly, looking visibly shaken. I lift my hand in a small wave to let the man know I truly am okay, thanking him for his kindness and concern, but looking to be done with all the attention.

Now turning into my apartment entryway, I allow myself a small smile. This latest brush with mortality will surely make for an entertaining story at the next research symposium, or maybe as a piece of creative writing, preferably one that reminds us that fieldwork is not only about obtaining data, or arriving at findings, but also about the unexpected accidents and adventures that we go through along the way. Possibly about the times when the field runs us over; hits us out of nowhere and sends us flying like mannequins into the unknown. Those experiences are valuable because they mark us; they are the field. They are not data by or from researchers, but data of researchers, of a kind that shows us the field from the perspective of human experience.