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I was somewhere in a remote village in the south of Senegal, hanging out with a band of traditional drummers, inside the house of a village chief, when I completely blacked out. I lost my vision first, then my balance, and as I reached out to grab onto something, I fell on a row of djembe drums that had been carefully tuned all morning by one of the drummers. The last thing I heard was a tuneful series of thuds that sounded like a clattering of wooden chimes.
I was pulled up from the floor, my legs clumsily clambering around like those of a baby deer, and as my vision slowly came back, I had a few moments where I completely forgot where I was, who I was, and who I was with. I sat on a bed, frozen in fear, staring at the clay wall in front of me like a cartoon character with stars floating around my head. Then it slowly came back to me. My name is Jordan. I’m from London. I’m in Senegal, and I’m with a band of drummers. But I don’t know what village I’m in. I don’t know how to get home. And no one I know back at home knows exactly where I am.
The absurdity of it all washed over me like a cold bucket of water. How could I be so stupid? And who did I think I was trying to pull this off? I remembered the nervous breakdown I suffered at the age of 16, when I was diagnosed with cannabis-induced psychosis, after spending six months smoking a dozen joints every day. I remembered the years of social anxiety and depression that followed. The anti-depressants, the anti-psychotics, the psychiatrists and youth workers. The hours that turned to days, that turned to weeks and months, sitting alone in my bedroom staring into a computer screen, afraid of leaving the house. Afraid of telling people how afraid I was. The feelings of isolation and alienation that have plagued me through out my adult life. Through the many jobs and social circles—the vacant smile that hides all the self loathing and self doubt below.
Someone like me doesn’t do something like this. People with mental health problems don’t fly to West Africa and join bands of folkloric drummers. Or perhaps it’s us who are the only ones mad enough to try. It was akin to running away with the circus, and it was precisely because of my mental health problems that I was doing all of this. I had spent too much of my life alone and isolated, staring out of a window and wondering what I could do if I wasn’t this way. Who would I be? What life would I live?
A young man walked past me with a smile, shook my hand, and said “This is your home now, you’re welcome here” and carried on his way.
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In the middle of my internal panic I looked at the people around me. There was Omar, the singer and leader of the band, who sat next to me laughing about how I fell on the djembes. He plays a banjo-like instrument called an akonting, a traditional folkloric instrument of his people: the Jola and the Karoninkas. Then there was Batch, the conga player who always wore a bright orange beanie despite the constant 40 degree heat. And Famara, a talented drummer who switched between different drums and was learning to play the saxophone. They had all known me for just a few weeks, and yet they treated me like I had lived with them for years. The genuine love and acceptance they showed me, and the way they brought me into their world was something magical and beautiful. The fact that they were also musicians of such a high calibre humbled me. And it didn’t bother them in the slightest that I just collapsed all over their drums.
This was towards the end of my three months living in Senegal and The Gambia. It started off as a polite holiday. I had no plans, and no expectations. But I wanted to learn about the music, meet musicians, push myself outside of my comfort zone and force myself to deal with my own shadows. I had no idea what would happen. But due to the sheer magnitude of its significance to me, I took a bunch of recording equipment and literally recorded the entire journey. I amassed hundreds of hours of field recordings and interviews.
Midway through the trip I lived with a family of griots—traditional musicians, story tellers and historians who, from birth, are taught the historical songs and stories of their people. A family based tradition, passed down from generation to generation. When I first arrived at the house of famed Gambian griots—the Jobarteh and Konte families—I stood awkwardly in their courtyard, looking at the mosaic flooring beneath my feet. In the centre of the courtyard, made from a different shade of tiles, were giant foot-long capital letters that spell out the words “peace and unity”.
A young man walked past me with a smile, shook my hand, and said “This is your home now, you’re welcome here” and carried on his way. A few moments later an older man came out of a doorway behind me, shook my hand, and told me to “feel free like home”. The Jobarteh and Konte families are one of the most famous kora griot families in the Gambia. The kora is a centuries old 21 string harp-like instrument, played with the two index fingers and two thumbs, with an incredible dexterity that mimics the sound of multiple finger-picking guitar players.
They too accepted me into their home like I was one of them. They looked after me, shared their food with me, gave me a bed to sleep on, played music with me until the early hours of the morning, and took me with them to their daily concerts that they played around the villages of The Gambia. I had never experienced such warmth and acceptance from so many people before.
When I arrived back to the UK, I realised what an extraordinary trip I’d been on. And how unusual it was to have the whole thing captured in audio. Since then I’ve been working on a podcast to share the journey and the incredible music I encountered, as well as my story and the stories of the musicians I met. It’s taken me two years to process the experience, understand it’s relevance to my life, but above all, to come to terms with one difficult truth. In order for me to share this story, I need to share the vulnerable and painful aspects of my self that I’ve spent so much of my life trying to hide. The depression, the anxiety, the struggle to accept myself.
Before this trip, I was desperately trying to hold myself together, to pretend that everything was fine and I was alright. In the wake of this trip I have learnt the importance of talking about those difficult emotions. As Carl G. Jung pointed out many years ago: “There is no coming to consciousness without pain. People will do anything, no matter how absurd, in order to avoid facing their own Soul. One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious.”
As I shine a light on my own shadow I realise the importance of sharing what I find. And in doing that I realise more and more that I’m not alone. Everyone has their psychological problems, and by sharing mine, it allows others to share theirs. By breaching that connection I realise there is nothing to be afraid of in showing my self to others. Those feelings that I used to hide so vehemently are the very feelings that open up spaces of intimacy and vulnerability between myself and the people I encounter. And this podcast has become the ultimate exercise in exploring that vulnerability, by sharing my inner most feelings with the world—and the people and the music that opened the door to my own self acceptance.
Polyphonic Odyssey is an autobiographical podcast series that chronicles the journey of London based musician and artist, Jordan Chatwin, who travelled to southern Senegal and The Gambia to learn about the music, the culture, and to overcome his own personal demons.You can listen to it on www.polyphonicodyssey.com
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Photo Credit: Getty Images