Story: The Bomvu Drum Festival

I worked on my drum with Silas for three days. It seemed the perfect activity; I’d have my own instrument for the festivities starting on Saturday. On day four I was in the weaving phase, knotting black nylon cord between fabric covered rings pulled tight against springbok skin and hollowed out sisal wood. The colorful purple and poppy yellow cloth I purchased at an open market in Swaziland worked well, creating subtle yet striking circular accents. What I didn’t use I gave to my drum master, a stash for future clients.

My drum was small, essential as I had another couple of weeks in South Africa on my own. Needed to fit snuggly under a seat or in an overhead compartment of buses and planes. Falling into a routine, I'd finish an early breakfast, leaning my percussive work in progress against my legs while I ate, then settle down on the rock wall by the dormant fire pit to do whatever Silas told me.

I’m not much of an arts and craft person. The replication of knots proved difficult. I couldn’t remember the sequencing, asking repeatedly for demonstrations of the process. My Virgo personality was frustrated. The hollowing of the sisal trunk, shellacking and sanding came easier, already part of an inherent skill set. Macrame had ever been a strong passion during my seventies childhood.

Silas was patient though and I enjoyed his presence. He constructed another drum himself, much larger than my lap size model Neil, a local surf instructor at the Coffee Shack backpacker's lodge did the same. Silas' home was Mdumbi, a neighboring town a stone's throw north of the bay. He combined drum making classes with solo performances and membership in the Coffee Bay Boys choral group. He was one of the festivals chief organizers. The evening before I’d gone with Roy, a film professor from Capetown, to capture a warm-up concert at the local school. Dave, an accomplished musician from Dublin, accompanied Silas expertly on flute to open the show. Six female singers followed, performing songs in their native language. The Coffee Bay Boys closed, singing songs I now recognized from their after dinner performances at the Shack. Roy hoped his documentary would provide the musical talent from the Wild Coast greater exposure in South Africa’s metropolitan centers, help generate income in a place with a seventy percent unemployment rate. He joined us while we worked, playing recordings from the night before. An inspiring soundtrack to weave the circular net around my drum Silas kept telling me wasn’t tight enough.

But the conversations on these mornings more often centered around the assortment of lovely young women from the Netherlands, England and Germany staying at the eclectic backpacker lodge. Neil and Silas had a word for them: “ Foomphs”. If they were incredibly hot they became “Super Foomphs”, drool often a factor when these very masculine men began their classification. Players by any standard, progress on our drums was frequently interrupted by passionate good-bye hugs and kisses before the toned, fair hair beauties moved on with their travels. No problem, more would shuttle in by early afternoon.

I formed my own theory on Silas’ popularity with the European girls. His physical presence and accented English made a strong, exotic contrast to the boys back home. As I pulled on the nylon with all my strength, a Dutch girl, wearing Silas’ scarf tangled in light brown ringlets around her swan-like neck, flaunted her souvenir, teasingly asking him if she could take it home. I’d never seen the yellow, blue and green stripped garment on anyone but Silas. And no matter how good the single bunk sex had been in cottage number six, I couldn’t imagine him parting with it. As he hugged her, he deftly slid the scarf into his right hand. Not until she pulled away did she realize her prize was gone.

By noon, shoulders stiff from hours bent in concentration, my drum was finished. The base not quite level, it wobbled when placed flat on the ground; still Silas declared it sound, began expertly pounding staccato rythyms from it’s compact body. He smiled and handed it back to me. My turn to play.

Foot percussion, that I can do. Raised in the Appalachians I learned to flat foot clog with blue grass bands at a young age. I wasn’t at all certain the ability to keep a beat translated to my hands. Silas' gift intimidated me. I tried copying his movements, muted and soft.
“ With more passion. You are the heartbeat of the dance.”
Another attempt, louder and more syncopated, pleased him. I placed the drum at my feet, telling him I’d practice in private and come back later to play.

But just like the piano lessons of my childhood, I didn’t, stowed my drum on my bunk disappearing with Mia, my surrogate African frisbee dog, for a disc session, swim, and run on the beach. Besides, new Foomphs and Super Foomphs were en route, extremely more interesting than watching a middle aged American chick bang on a homemade drum.

The parking lots at the Coffee Shack and Bomvu Backpacker’s started filling up on July 5th. The eighth annual Bomvu Drum and Dance Festival started two days later. Now each morning as me and a quintet of local mutts dogs took our morning walk, more people shared the sand at sunrise. No accomodation available in town, no space on the lawn without a tent. Besides dancing and drumming, festival goers could make a drum (I was ahead of the power curve on that one) attend yoga, massage and meditation workshops, in addition to the entertainment. Silas, Master of Ceremonies starting Friday night, one of the head liners Saturday, was nervous. I could tell because he hadn’t flirted with a single intoxicated Foomph or Super Foomph the entire night, and there was plenty of new talent around.

Roy set up his computer and recording equipment in the Bomvu bar. He perched his customary glass of South African red wine to the left of his keyboard, showing clips the night’s performances. Silas needn't feel butterfiles: his throaty baritone expertly welcomed the standing room only crowd opening night. Two dozen acts came from all over South Africa to participate and I was glad I’d taken Roy’s advice to stay longer than planned. As live performers gave way to hypnotic dance music spun by a pair of DJs, Silas peeked in to see how he looked on video. Satisfied with his celluloid persona, he morphed back to his old flirtatious self, talking to a trio of Foomphs afterwards ( or Super Foomphs. I wasn’t at all clear and what differentiated the two).

It was an electric couple of days. In deference to the all night drum sessions, performances started at one p.m. Saturday, four p.m.on Sunday. Like any multiple day festival, a plastic wrist band flashed at the venue’s entrance, indicated you paid full fare. Having mornings free allowed for more explorations of the Wild Coast. I made the acquaintance of a South African nuclear family: Michael, Connie and Dominic, traveling along the Indian Ocean, camping in various gorgeous locations along the way. Dominic was one of the best adjusted fifteen year olds I’ve ever met, honestly enjoying his parent’s company. They let me tag along on half day trips to Hole in the Wall and the Hluleka Nature Reserve. We’d return in time to enjoy fire dancing, gospel music and Silas’ mesmerizing drumming and singing.

A disturbing development Sunday night broke the magic. Someone stole Roy’s computer and video camera, all his recordings on the hard drive and memory card. With so many people moving in and out of the Bomvu bar, finding the culprit would be difficult. All we could do was ply the professor with multiple glasses of red wine, hand him a joint and hope for some karmic miracle.

My bags were packed and waiting for transport Monday morning. My intention to somehow make Capetown in one twenty-four hour shot. As I finished my tea, Roy approached and handed me a CD. His equipment had been recovered. The boyfriend of one of the Bomvu kitchen staff stole his gear When the young woman discovered the equipment under her bed, she immediately turned them over to her employer. I kissed Roy on the cheek, happy for this positive outcome. He'd take the slow road to the city before starting the laborious process of editing his film.

I was the last passenger squeezing into the Izuzu for the drive to Umtata. Silas handed me my drum, resting it on my lap for the bumpy ascent inland. As the door slammed shut he and Neil called out in unison as we pulled away.
“ Good-bye American Super Foomph!” Guess I qualified after all.