Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Song of my home
Bamako. Beautiful, and graceful in a very dirty, haphazard, unexpected way. It calls to you in the stretched fabrics, freshly died and drying the sun, colors: rich and clean and full. It calls to you in the ballad-like songs of guitar and Kora, in the call and answer greetings, in the voices that rise and fall throughout the music. Long notes that make you imagine stretches of sand and sky. Bamako. The rough roads, the small boutiques, the faintly fishy peanut sauces and sticky rice, always still a bit dirty. The women who wash: Straight backed and long pushing and scrubbing and dipping, legs straight bent from the waist like chairs folded in two. Bamako. Small grass huts: the constant, rhythmic pounding of bassins--fabrics... glimpses of shirtless men in grass huts, legs spread out, facing each other, each pounding one after another with heavy wooden mallets, held in both hands. One raises his mallet while the other crashes his own down upon the bright colored fabric, pounding it into a smooth glossy sheen. The array of huts at dusk: the sound emerging like music. Wood on wood, pounded by so many hands, the music held together by the soft, low grinding of the mill where the women gather to collect flour. They crowd around carrying half gourds on their heads, chattering and laughing, the grainy grey flour falling from the dull metal mill. Bamako. The dirt pitch and makeshift goals- two long beams, stuck in the earth, with a string tied across the top. Swift colors darting, grunts and calls, and the ball rolls fast from one to another. Teams sauntering past, laughing, joking, running. Bamako. Little ones with protruding bellybuttons. Wide eyes, patient faces, runny noses, sticky hands, smooth shoulders. Voices that imitate my own with uncanny accuracy. "TooBahBoo” the sound that follows my footsteps when they glimpse me from the street. Bamako. Wide grins and teeth, smooth heads, skin like night, but deeper, smoother. Muscles that move like the music, quick hands that sew together the bassins, creating patterns around which the dye emerges. Tie- dyed with plastic bags and scrap rubber. Under the trees, smooth skin melts into the night, hands move automatically assured. Bamako. My home.
Monday, February 19, 2007
Patience & Honesty
2.17.07 Patience & Honesty
It is Saturday again and somehow I have slipped into a routine of living here. Without realizing it, I slide through the days. I can’t believe that another week has passed; I am slowly becoming accustomed to this place, learning to live in it and trying to be realistic about the stretch of my own arms while my eyes and heart stray daily into the multitude of temptations that come with the emergence of a new life.
There are so many things to say. Monuments of sensation are being constructed on rickety foundations in my mind. While the days melt away, everything that is new slowly sifts itself into the common activities of daily life. Perhaps it is fatigue, but I feel as if the shiny lacquer that glosses everything that is slowly being covered by a fine layer of orange dust. Now, I remember that one of the duties I have chosen for myself is that of housecleaner: with my writing, I intend to wipe my finger through the dust and uncover pieces that still awe me. By doing that, I intend to build a stronger foundation based on honesty to myself and to the new place I call my home.
Right now, unfortunately, the difficulties are what keep coming to me. I know myself well enough to realize that one of the biggest reasons for this is fatigue. I have never, in all my travels, jumped so deeply into a job as quickly as I am doing right now. The day after I arrived, I went to work, and have worked every weekday since, including moments today and a significant chunk of tomorrow. I go to work by 8:30 and generally return home around 5:30. I am still trying to situate in my new home, which means that time spent not working on CFH is spent trying to get my house together. I must clarify that “get my house together” is a very broad term. It encompasses spending a lot time getting to know my neighbors, trying to speak Bambara, figure out prices, clarify boundaries with my guardien (more on that to come), find food, meet women, set up furniture, build a garden, cook, get my laundry done, etc. It means trying hard to get my bearings in my immediate surroundings rather than exploring the hills or the centre ville or the night clubs or the supermarket or the artisan village, or writing as much as I would like to. I know this will all come and I am content where I am, knowing that I have three years here. I have chosen to try holding patience in my right hand and honesty in my left for these weeks. Despite my intentions, they are both proving to be very slippery elements in my driven life these days.
It is Saturday again and somehow I have slipped into a routine of living here. Without realizing it, I slide through the days. I can’t believe that another week has passed; I am slowly becoming accustomed to this place, learning to live in it and trying to be realistic about the stretch of my own arms while my eyes and heart stray daily into the multitude of temptations that come with the emergence of a new life.
There are so many things to say. Monuments of sensation are being constructed on rickety foundations in my mind. While the days melt away, everything that is new slowly sifts itself into the common activities of daily life. Perhaps it is fatigue, but I feel as if the shiny lacquer that glosses everything that is slowly being covered by a fine layer of orange dust. Now, I remember that one of the duties I have chosen for myself is that of housecleaner: with my writing, I intend to wipe my finger through the dust and uncover pieces that still awe me. By doing that, I intend to build a stronger foundation based on honesty to myself and to the new place I call my home.
Right now, unfortunately, the difficulties are what keep coming to me. I know myself well enough to realize that one of the biggest reasons for this is fatigue. I have never, in all my travels, jumped so deeply into a job as quickly as I am doing right now. The day after I arrived, I went to work, and have worked every weekday since, including moments today and a significant chunk of tomorrow. I go to work by 8:30 and generally return home around 5:30. I am still trying to situate in my new home, which means that time spent not working on CFH is spent trying to get my house together. I must clarify that “get my house together” is a very broad term. It encompasses spending a lot time getting to know my neighbors, trying to speak Bambara, figure out prices, clarify boundaries with my guardien (more on that to come), find food, meet women, set up furniture, build a garden, cook, get my laundry done, etc. It means trying hard to get my bearings in my immediate surroundings rather than exploring the hills or the centre ville or the night clubs or the supermarket or the artisan village, or writing as much as I would like to. I know this will all come and I am content where I am, knowing that I have three years here. I have chosen to try holding patience in my right hand and honesty in my left for these weeks. Despite my intentions, they are both proving to be very slippery elements in my driven life these days.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
In the Heart of the Moon
12.2.07 In the Heart of the Moon
Ali Farka Touré, a famous Malian musician has an album called “in the Heart of the Moon”. The music starts slow, a constant rhythm that is patient and calm, repetitive yet playful, elegant in it’s assurance of itself. It has an effect that leads a listener out of the world he knows, floating him away into a realm of .
As a newcomer to Mali, I find myself feeling as if I am being led into the heart of this music and into the heart of the moon itself. It is vast here, without doubt, a grand stage for discovery and beauty. It is also a bit lonely.
I arrived in Bamako after weeks bursting with social engagements, energy, inspiration and play; after weeks of hearing “ You are invited” from every person on the street; after a lovely and lingering disease of twitterpation. Living with an overflowing cup, I come to Bamako to find I can only fill it half way. It is only reasonable that walking into the echoing rooms of my brand new home be a little disconcerting. I feel overwhelmed by the space, by the sound of it, by the knowledge that it is all mine for the next three years, by my position in regard to those around me. I feel as if I have been spinning with my arms outstretched, face to the sky and I stop, let my arms hang and feel the whole world tilt around me. It is only now, listening to the album in the quiet of my home that I take a lesson from the late Farka Touré: to have patience with myself and with my new home.
I feel the need to address the emotional adventure before I can lay claim to the physical one. Soon, I will find the words to bring life to the world that continues to build behind this dam.
Ali Farka Touré, a famous Malian musician has an album called “in the Heart of the Moon”. The music starts slow, a constant rhythm that is patient and calm, repetitive yet playful, elegant in it’s assurance of itself. It has an effect that leads a listener out of the world he knows, floating him away into a realm of .
As a newcomer to Mali, I find myself feeling as if I am being led into the heart of this music and into the heart of the moon itself. It is vast here, without doubt, a grand stage for discovery and beauty. It is also a bit lonely.
I arrived in Bamako after weeks bursting with social engagements, energy, inspiration and play; after weeks of hearing “ You are invited” from every person on the street; after a lovely and lingering disease of twitterpation. Living with an overflowing cup, I come to Bamako to find I can only fill it half way. It is only reasonable that walking into the echoing rooms of my brand new home be a little disconcerting. I feel overwhelmed by the space, by the sound of it, by the knowledge that it is all mine for the next three years, by my position in regard to those around me. I feel as if I have been spinning with my arms outstretched, face to the sky and I stop, let my arms hang and feel the whole world tilt around me. It is only now, listening to the album in the quiet of my home that I take a lesson from the late Farka Touré: to have patience with myself and with my new home.
I feel the need to address the emotional adventure before I can lay claim to the physical one. Soon, I will find the words to bring life to the world that continues to build behind this dam.
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
Goodbye Ouagadougou
2.6.07 Goodbye Oaugadougou
My final day in Ouaga. I walk slowly home; anticipation perks itself on one of my shoulders while reluctance sits firmly on the other. In the three weeks I have been here, I have come to really appreciate the loud music shifting from Maquis, the dirt roads that wind like bumpy veins through the city, the deep smoky barbeque aroma that sometimes mixes with such acrid pollution I can hardly breath, the masses of motorbikes and bicycles that swerve across the roads, and the people. The people, how do I begin to describe the warmth and humor and generosity with which these people have welcomed me into their country?
I have made friends with an old woman who sits under one of the makeshift structures that line the outer walls of the Mosque. She wears a sunshine yellow shawl over her shaved head and her hands are dry as sandpaper. She sits on a green rug, and today she has hung a piece of fabric up to keep out the blazing sun. It is still hot when I squat to greet her; I know because immediately the sweat begins to collect in the places my legs touch each other. We shake hands over and over, her rough palms enclosing my one damp hand. I feel desert in her skin. Our conversation is more an exchange of gestures and repetitions than a conversation. In fact, all I understand of what she says is her name “Mariam, Mariam” and my own “Say-la, Sayla” as well as the names of her daughter and grand daughter “Fatimata, Kahdou, Fatimata, Kahdou” we shake hands and say each others names. I think she is telling me that Fatimata and Kahdou have gone back to the cluster of rooms they share with many other families. She will return in the evening, but I will be gone. Mariam offers me a bunch of carrots, a small cluster of orange on the ends of straggled leaves. I try to refuse, I have just eaten and I believe she probably needs them more than I. Nevertheless, she insists, and I take the small bunch, eat a piece and thank her. “Barrakah, barrakah” Thank you. She responds in my own language “mesi, mesi” thank you, merci. I move to leave. She bends her head forward and touches the top of it. I do the same, then touch the top of her head too. Her grey hair bristles under my fingers and she laughs.
As I turn up my road, and walk a few steps towards my house, shrieking bits of laughter fill my ears, and I look up to see two small children sprinting towards me, hands outstretched. One in a dirty yellow shirt with gaps in his teeth, the other in a dress, her hair in five tightly metal wrapped ‘horns’ sticking out from her head, a small mousy face. They giggle up to me, I shake their hands, and they turn around and sprint back to the skeleton of a car they had been playing in while the second shift of two children follow their lead. They run, bare feet over the red dust, towards me, hands outstretched, laughing. I shake and they run back to the car.
There is a certain bittersweet challenge to leaving a place like this. I have developed relationships. I feel, in some way, that I have committed myself to these people, the children in the car, the boys who slack line with me, and play football in the streets, throwing marbles in the dirt, Mariams’ bending head and desert hands. I can’t resist their shy smiles, tentative handshakes and laughter. The exchange is so precious to me, and yet I feel almost guilty for getting to know them then walking away from them. One part of me asks Why not share yourself with these people? Why not open to them, give them what you are, share your own smile? The other part cringes when they say “don’t leave, it makes me sad”. I am trying to find the balance because I am beginning to believe that the life of a westerner in a place like this is bound to be full of such interactions, and the inevitable truth is that, one day, we will all leave. I will always have Oregon to go home to, and I think it is that knowledge sets me apart from these people more than anything else.
I remember an afternoon in Washington DC saying goodbye to someone I cared for. I stood in the arching hall of the metro station, feeling the woosh of air as the trains flew by. In my hand was a fresh, ripe plum. As he boarded the train, and it swept away, I felt the smooth curve of the plum in my palm. I took a bite, the smooth skin resisted a moment before breaking and a sweet, subtle, violet flavor flooded my mouth. I could not imagine anything better than enjoying that plum at that instant, having known someone and shared with him some small part of myself, the fruit now tasted so much more alive. I have come to believe that relationships are what make life sweeter. The moments we share with others are the ones that help us receive greater pleasure and participate to a fuller extent in our lives. I hope that all my interactions will end with the same ease as the children running, laughing back to their gutted car: A smile, handshake, an acknowledgement of each others differences just as much as an appreciation of them. And after, the great appreciation of life itself, as it is, full and sweet and delicious.
My final day in Ouaga. I walk slowly home; anticipation perks itself on one of my shoulders while reluctance sits firmly on the other. In the three weeks I have been here, I have come to really appreciate the loud music shifting from Maquis, the dirt roads that wind like bumpy veins through the city, the deep smoky barbeque aroma that sometimes mixes with such acrid pollution I can hardly breath, the masses of motorbikes and bicycles that swerve across the roads, and the people. The people, how do I begin to describe the warmth and humor and generosity with which these people have welcomed me into their country?
I have made friends with an old woman who sits under one of the makeshift structures that line the outer walls of the Mosque. She wears a sunshine yellow shawl over her shaved head and her hands are dry as sandpaper. She sits on a green rug, and today she has hung a piece of fabric up to keep out the blazing sun. It is still hot when I squat to greet her; I know because immediately the sweat begins to collect in the places my legs touch each other. We shake hands over and over, her rough palms enclosing my one damp hand. I feel desert in her skin. Our conversation is more an exchange of gestures and repetitions than a conversation. In fact, all I understand of what she says is her name “Mariam, Mariam” and my own “Say-la, Sayla” as well as the names of her daughter and grand daughter “Fatimata, Kahdou, Fatimata, Kahdou” we shake hands and say each others names. I think she is telling me that Fatimata and Kahdou have gone back to the cluster of rooms they share with many other families. She will return in the evening, but I will be gone. Mariam offers me a bunch of carrots, a small cluster of orange on the ends of straggled leaves. I try to refuse, I have just eaten and I believe she probably needs them more than I. Nevertheless, she insists, and I take the small bunch, eat a piece and thank her. “Barrakah, barrakah” Thank you. She responds in my own language “mesi, mesi” thank you, merci. I move to leave. She bends her head forward and touches the top of it. I do the same, then touch the top of her head too. Her grey hair bristles under my fingers and she laughs.
As I turn up my road, and walk a few steps towards my house, shrieking bits of laughter fill my ears, and I look up to see two small children sprinting towards me, hands outstretched. One in a dirty yellow shirt with gaps in his teeth, the other in a dress, her hair in five tightly metal wrapped ‘horns’ sticking out from her head, a small mousy face. They giggle up to me, I shake their hands, and they turn around and sprint back to the skeleton of a car they had been playing in while the second shift of two children follow their lead. They run, bare feet over the red dust, towards me, hands outstretched, laughing. I shake and they run back to the car.
There is a certain bittersweet challenge to leaving a place like this. I have developed relationships. I feel, in some way, that I have committed myself to these people, the children in the car, the boys who slack line with me, and play football in the streets, throwing marbles in the dirt, Mariams’ bending head and desert hands. I can’t resist their shy smiles, tentative handshakes and laughter. The exchange is so precious to me, and yet I feel almost guilty for getting to know them then walking away from them. One part of me asks Why not share yourself with these people? Why not open to them, give them what you are, share your own smile? The other part cringes when they say “don’t leave, it makes me sad”. I am trying to find the balance because I am beginning to believe that the life of a westerner in a place like this is bound to be full of such interactions, and the inevitable truth is that, one day, we will all leave. I will always have Oregon to go home to, and I think it is that knowledge sets me apart from these people more than anything else.
I remember an afternoon in Washington DC saying goodbye to someone I cared for. I stood in the arching hall of the metro station, feeling the woosh of air as the trains flew by. In my hand was a fresh, ripe plum. As he boarded the train, and it swept away, I felt the smooth curve of the plum in my palm. I took a bite, the smooth skin resisted a moment before breaking and a sweet, subtle, violet flavor flooded my mouth. I could not imagine anything better than enjoying that plum at that instant, having known someone and shared with him some small part of myself, the fruit now tasted so much more alive. I have come to believe that relationships are what make life sweeter. The moments we share with others are the ones that help us receive greater pleasure and participate to a fuller extent in our lives. I hope that all my interactions will end with the same ease as the children running, laughing back to their gutted car: A smile, handshake, an acknowledgement of each others differences just as much as an appreciation of them. And after, the great appreciation of life itself, as it is, full and sweet and delicious.
Monday, February 5, 2007
Coaching for Hope: Reflections
1.31.07 Overflow
If I could describe the last 10 days in one sentence, I would say it was a glass constantly overflowing. Each new day brought higher levels of inspiration, excitement, wonder, passion, and confidence in the project I am now involved in.
Often, I would make my way home, slowly picking my way through the dirt, dazed and smiling, my nerve endings tingling, my acceptance of joy simply brimming.
I can’t begin to describe or recount all that has happened over the last week, but there are many moments that flash though my head like a slideshow of color and light and movement. I still wonder of is not all just a dream. The office work: accounts, translations, “Bloody f***ing ‘ell” exclamations from my UK counterparts, makes me believe this really happened. Following are a few sketches of the last week:
ABPAM, School for the blind and partially sighted. Three new coaches are leading football training sessions with groups of blind and partially sighted children. One of the new coaches bounces a ball in the center of the circle. The bells inside the ball ring so that the children hear each bounce, then shout the number of bounces. They laugh together if someone misses, and shout excitedly whenever he bounces the ball.
In another corner of the pitch, David rolls a ball towards a small boy who’s excitement shows in the pinwheeling arms, continuous jumping, scrunched up face and big grin every time he hears the ball approaching.
The art session is inside, so I wander into the long room, and see 25 children sitting at a table creating football players out of tin foil. Yacouba Kaboré, a new coach, reaches around the shoulders of one child to help him form the arms and legs of the player, murmmering encouraging words and learning through his voice and touch as opposed to his eyes.
Video clip: HIV/AIDS Session #4, Group A led by Romain and Kafui. I sit apart from the table, surrounded by ten new coaches (two women and eight men). Romain leans against the front table, watching as the conversation bounces back and forth. The topic of discussion is how to properly store and use a condom. Is it OK to use if it has been in your pocket for several months? How do you negotiate sex with a condom? The discussion is animated and everyone has something to add, or ask. This is the type of learning I like to see. Finally, they come to a conclusion. I watch as Romain eases into the next topic, with ten faces eager around him to throw in their two cents and discover where the others stand.
Sound bite: Senior coaches meeting Monday, the 29th. I sat surrounded by the nine faces of local coaches who had made this event possible. Over the past week, I had come to recognize each one, their coaching style, their presence, how they interacted with the group. I had watched each day as they brought dynamism and excitement and skill and respect to their groups of coaches and was now anxious to hear what they had to say about the event. Someone mentioned that Tom would like for the coaches to try and quantify how many hours per week they dedicated to Coaching for Hope. Kafui, a.k.a. Benjamin points his finger in the air and says in his clear, quiet voice:
“There is no way to quantify the time we put into Coaching for Hope; it has entered into our daily habits. There is now no way to take it out.” His comment was supported by a loud chorus of agreement. “It’s in our blood!” “It has changed the way we live on a daily basis” “ Coaching for Hope is a part of our lives; you now couldn’t take it out if you wanted to.”
If I could describe the last 10 days in one sentence, I would say it was a glass constantly overflowing. Each new day brought higher levels of inspiration, excitement, wonder, passion, and confidence in the project I am now involved in.
Often, I would make my way home, slowly picking my way through the dirt, dazed and smiling, my nerve endings tingling, my acceptance of joy simply brimming.
I can’t begin to describe or recount all that has happened over the last week, but there are many moments that flash though my head like a slideshow of color and light and movement. I still wonder of is not all just a dream. The office work: accounts, translations, “Bloody f***ing ‘ell” exclamations from my UK counterparts, makes me believe this really happened. Following are a few sketches of the last week:
ABPAM, School for the blind and partially sighted. Three new coaches are leading football training sessions with groups of blind and partially sighted children. One of the new coaches bounces a ball in the center of the circle. The bells inside the ball ring so that the children hear each bounce, then shout the number of bounces. They laugh together if someone misses, and shout excitedly whenever he bounces the ball.
In another corner of the pitch, David rolls a ball towards a small boy who’s excitement shows in the pinwheeling arms, continuous jumping, scrunched up face and big grin every time he hears the ball approaching.
The art session is inside, so I wander into the long room, and see 25 children sitting at a table creating football players out of tin foil. Yacouba Kaboré, a new coach, reaches around the shoulders of one child to help him form the arms and legs of the player, murmmering encouraging words and learning through his voice and touch as opposed to his eyes.
Video clip: HIV/AIDS Session #4, Group A led by Romain and Kafui. I sit apart from the table, surrounded by ten new coaches (two women and eight men). Romain leans against the front table, watching as the conversation bounces back and forth. The topic of discussion is how to properly store and use a condom. Is it OK to use if it has been in your pocket for several months? How do you negotiate sex with a condom? The discussion is animated and everyone has something to add, or ask. This is the type of learning I like to see. Finally, they come to a conclusion. I watch as Romain eases into the next topic, with ten faces eager around him to throw in their two cents and discover where the others stand.
Sound bite: Senior coaches meeting Monday, the 29th. I sat surrounded by the nine faces of local coaches who had made this event possible. Over the past week, I had come to recognize each one, their coaching style, their presence, how they interacted with the group. I had watched each day as they brought dynamism and excitement and skill and respect to their groups of coaches and was now anxious to hear what they had to say about the event. Someone mentioned that Tom would like for the coaches to try and quantify how many hours per week they dedicated to Coaching for Hope. Kafui, a.k.a. Benjamin points his finger in the air and says in his clear, quiet voice:
“There is no way to quantify the time we put into Coaching for Hope; it has entered into our daily habits. There is now no way to take it out.” His comment was supported by a loud chorus of agreement. “It’s in our blood!” “It has changed the way we live on a daily basis” “ Coaching for Hope is a part of our lives; you now couldn’t take it out if you wanted to.”
Coaching for HOPE! Session 1
1.22.07 CFH BF Day 1
We arrive at the stadium at 7:30 am. I greet Roma and Kaba and a few of the new coaches who have already shown up. There is a group of men setting up the tents and our equipment has been unloaded onto the field. Without seeing anything else to do, I begin to set up the goals we have had made. The white paper with “Coaching for Hope” and ADIDAS alternating on the cross bar shines bright against dry grass in the early morning sun. As the coaches trickle in and wander around the area, I greet them and try out my new handshake- the burkinabe way. At the end of a short strong shake, I curl my first two fingers just barely, and put a little resistance against theirs so that when we finish, my fingers snap back into my palm. If it is done right, it sounds like I have just snapped my own fingers and I get a glance of appreciation and a smile, or the louder ohhhhhhh, the all purpose Burkinabé sound: full of laughter and surprise. It is a sound that fits these people well.
The day officially starts with a small greeting and introduction by the UK coaches, and then the session is handed over to the local senior coaches who have been chosen to run all the sessions. My desire to see immediate success in the program conflicts with my desire to see it sustainable and handed over to the locals. I must admit that at first I was skeptical; it’s hard to let go of the perception that I could offer guidance or help to make the process more efficient or effective. Standing by, watching people roam around without seeming to get the coaching sessions started, I itched to do something- anything. I think we all (especially myself and the UK coaches) felt a little disconcerted to let go of the reins. My ideas about how I’d like to see things work were being blown away into the dust and I was being asked to stand around and watch it happen.
By the end of the day, that perception had changed drastically. I went from hesitance and frustration to wonder and appreciation. I watched the senior coaches as they led the new coaches in drills. I listened to the easy, joking laughter and horsing around. I watched each group begin to develop a dynamic among themselves, and through all this, I saw greater confidence glimmer in the eyes of the leaders. By the time they came in for a break and the HIV/AIDS training session all the groups seemed to have meshed and the senior coaches had stepped beautifully into the roles of leadership. They cooperated and supported each other, working easily as a team.
The HIV/AIDS training session boosted my confidence in the process even more. I sat and listened to one of them, loving the chance to see each person discussing their views, the leaders accepting and facilitating smoothly. I could not imagine a better way to do it.
In the afternoon, my excitement cup spilled over as I watched several of the new coaches take a group of 50 students at the Collège St. Christophe for a football training session. Each took their group through a set of drills and led their students with ease. This time, it was the new coaches, bringing what they had learned in the morning session into their work with the kids at school.
Going to a school made me feel like a celebrity. My white skin, my different accent, everything I said or did attracted the attention and adoration of the students. I had boys rapping to me, girls asking for my address, I felt constantly surrounded by a mass of bright faces, grinning into mine. Though it was quite and ego boost to feel sought after, this experience paled in comparison to the joy I experienced watching the senior coaches lead HIV/AIDS sessions and watching the new coaches run drills in the soft dusty schoolyard. This day has shown
We arrive at the stadium at 7:30 am. I greet Roma and Kaba and a few of the new coaches who have already shown up. There is a group of men setting up the tents and our equipment has been unloaded onto the field. Without seeing anything else to do, I begin to set up the goals we have had made. The white paper with “Coaching for Hope” and ADIDAS alternating on the cross bar shines bright against dry grass in the early morning sun. As the coaches trickle in and wander around the area, I greet them and try out my new handshake- the burkinabe way. At the end of a short strong shake, I curl my first two fingers just barely, and put a little resistance against theirs so that when we finish, my fingers snap back into my palm. If it is done right, it sounds like I have just snapped my own fingers and I get a glance of appreciation and a smile, or the louder ohhhhhhh, the all purpose Burkinabé sound: full of laughter and surprise. It is a sound that fits these people well.
The day officially starts with a small greeting and introduction by the UK coaches, and then the session is handed over to the local senior coaches who have been chosen to run all the sessions. My desire to see immediate success in the program conflicts with my desire to see it sustainable and handed over to the locals. I must admit that at first I was skeptical; it’s hard to let go of the perception that I could offer guidance or help to make the process more efficient or effective. Standing by, watching people roam around without seeming to get the coaching sessions started, I itched to do something- anything. I think we all (especially myself and the UK coaches) felt a little disconcerted to let go of the reins. My ideas about how I’d like to see things work were being blown away into the dust and I was being asked to stand around and watch it happen.
By the end of the day, that perception had changed drastically. I went from hesitance and frustration to wonder and appreciation. I watched the senior coaches as they led the new coaches in drills. I listened to the easy, joking laughter and horsing around. I watched each group begin to develop a dynamic among themselves, and through all this, I saw greater confidence glimmer in the eyes of the leaders. By the time they came in for a break and the HIV/AIDS training session all the groups seemed to have meshed and the senior coaches had stepped beautifully into the roles of leadership. They cooperated and supported each other, working easily as a team.
The HIV/AIDS training session boosted my confidence in the process even more. I sat and listened to one of them, loving the chance to see each person discussing their views, the leaders accepting and facilitating smoothly. I could not imagine a better way to do it.
In the afternoon, my excitement cup spilled over as I watched several of the new coaches take a group of 50 students at the Collège St. Christophe for a football training session. Each took their group through a set of drills and led their students with ease. This time, it was the new coaches, bringing what they had learned in the morning session into their work with the kids at school.
Going to a school made me feel like a celebrity. My white skin, my different accent, everything I said or did attracted the attention and adoration of the students. I had boys rapping to me, girls asking for my address, I felt constantly surrounded by a mass of bright faces, grinning into mine. Though it was quite and ego boost to feel sought after, this experience paled in comparison to the joy I experienced watching the senior coaches lead HIV/AIDS sessions and watching the new coaches run drills in the soft dusty schoolyard. This day has shown
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