Today I went to the Eastern Station Market with a few friends. Partially for my study and mostly because I fucking love flea markets. I wandered around looking at the traditional "cultured" items like saris and scarves infused with tiny little mirrors. All tourist-y though. You know, they had the usual myriad of tents selling jewelry, witty graphic tees, overpriced photography and home goods.
Then, out of the corner of my eye...I saw a small board with tin keys fastened to hardwood. "Alyssa!" Alyssa found one of these in a free bin a couple months ago. It was love at first sight. I was like "oh dear god, it's a sign!". I had to have one, so I asked him the price - 200 dollars. Oh HELL no.
Then, we fell into conversation. The small wooden instrument is called mbira dvavadzimu, or voice of the ancestors. They originate in Zimbabwe and the music of the mbira is considered to bridge the divide between this world and the next. Holy shit, that's awesome. Then he showed me his personal mbira. It was over 100 years old and the small metal keys were worn and smooth as butter. He started to play the most beautiful song, it was soft and low and who am I kidding? I almost cried right there in front of that random vendor man.
Keeping my shit together, we talked a little more about how when the British colonized Zimbabwe they basically prohibited mbira music and gave the locals guitars instead. This only made the musicians retreat to the hills where they continued to play. It was all so beautiful, I asked him again where I could find one. Oh, I forgot part of the story. So, there are different tunings to the mbira. The ones he was selling were masaba (I think I'm completely wrong on that term) tunings - but those were kind of high pitched and not my thing. BUT the mbira that he had was a gandanga tuning - which he repeatedly affirmed was the best. He also informed me that there was virtually no way that I would be able to find one. I laughed at myself. That's such an American mindset to immediately want one of everything just because we can.
He had gotten his mbira from a good friend. In Zimbabwe, she was appointed the musician of the family and therefore was given the family mbira. At one point, she had to lend him her instrument for three years so that she could go on some trip. After three years, she came back SPECIFICALLY for its return. Yet, once she had seen that he had learned to play it so well - she couldn't help but let him keep it. It's stories like that that get you a mbira. Dammit. My heart literally melted when I heard him play that thing. A hundred fucking years. Oh man.
So moral of the story, we kept talking for a while. He showed us pictures of his trips to Zimbabwe and told us that he was heading back at the end of December. We got into talking about IHP and the places we were going. This guy was awesome - so friendly and offering us lessons and a place to stay in Zimbabwe hah! At the end of it all, we exchanged e-mails. He really wanted to hear all our stories and was going to let Mike and me know if he ended up finding any gandanga mbiras. (This is the point of the story where I pee my pants). I don't know if we'll ever hear from him but as we walked away I made a point to briefly turn back and remind him how serious I really was.
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