Skillshare International
Sheylan Yearsley
BP E4710
Bamako Mali
Please let me know if you send something my way because we check the box rarely.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Shedding Layers
The day is hot; I rest in the shade of a tree, digesting the rice and sauce I just finished from the communal bowl. My fingers still burn from the steaming sauce; my cheeks still rouge from being the last to leave the bowl, and leave it still half full. The first tea has been served, hot and sticky sweet just as I like it. I anticipate another 2 hours to go through the second and third rounds. The air is heavy and still; I can feel no end to the heat and appreciate the shelter offered by the tree, however minimal it is. The village stretches out in dusty waves before me, the football field and school behind me, the well to my right; ahead, the market and beyond, the mayors office and the chiefs home. Everything is marked by the uncommonly brilliant glow of sun. Heat and sun have faded everything, and all colors seem to have melted away until nothing is left but the bleached brown dirt and dust and the hazy deep green of the mango trees. I myself feel the fade and am ready to lay my head back and close my eyes when they come. I am immediately awake again, almost nervous. This is the team I came to see.
22 girls are walking towards my tree. Each wears a yellow or blue Coaching for Hope jersey over tee-shirts, tank tops and brilliantly patterned fabric skirts, wrapped like sarongs around their small waists.They come toward me through the dust, huddling close, as if seeking comfort in their numbers. I am reminded of an easter basket with all the colors of their sarongs and their uniformly yellow and blue bibs.
At first, they are quiet, shy. Their heads are lowered as they approach us and they peer out at us from safety of their crowd. These are girls between 12 and 17, but all are small. No one is prepared to speak with us. My attempted bambara greetings are met with shallow murmers or polite nods as we walk together towards the school where I will watch one HIV session before moving onto the football field for practice.
When the doors to the classroom open I witness transformation. The chatter begins. They unwrap their sarongs, revealing shorts and jeans and whatever sportswear they could find in this small village. The traditional long skirts that had carried these girls through the curious eyes of the village are now piled on dark, dusty chairs and desks. Snatches of color catch sunlight that streams through the one open window of the classroom. The same sunlight reflects white teeth and glittering earings dangling from the lobes of the girls. This is the first time I realize that these girls have prepared for our visit. They have dressed in their best, and are really here to show us what they know.
The session starts with a song. One girl stands in front, and lets her voice ring across the classroom. She stands tall and her voice is strong, but she still will not allow me to hold eye contact. The rest of the girls respond to her call, clapping their hands in rhythm.
When we move onto the football field, the stiff air is filled with shrieks of laughter, cries of delight, as the girls run together, stopping and standing together every time the whistle blows. This team is learning the game under the patient instruction of one of my coaches and I can see them beginning to assert themselves when the football comes out. One girl stands tall, her foot firmly planted on the ball; she seems proud to have it at her feet and even prouder to know what to do with it when the whistle blows. I join the drill, show off a little juke here, and smile to myself as I see some of the girls try out the same trick. The expressions of these girls are celebrational, cheerful, and still very timid, as though they are sure that at any moment someone could break the spell, and they just like that they would no longer be football players; they would again be water carriers, and future wives.
After practice, lots of photos and laughter, I find myself back on the long bouncy dirt road, headed home with leftover sun clouding my head, and weighting my eyes. I think back on the sarongs piled in the streaming light of the classroom, on the sound of the girls as they kicked and ran. I wonder to myself what might be gained and what might be shed in the weeks and months to come of this village football team.
22 girls are walking towards my tree. Each wears a yellow or blue Coaching for Hope jersey over tee-shirts, tank tops and brilliantly patterned fabric skirts, wrapped like sarongs around their small waists.They come toward me through the dust, huddling close, as if seeking comfort in their numbers. I am reminded of an easter basket with all the colors of their sarongs and their uniformly yellow and blue bibs.
At first, they are quiet, shy. Their heads are lowered as they approach us and they peer out at us from safety of their crowd. These are girls between 12 and 17, but all are small. No one is prepared to speak with us. My attempted bambara greetings are met with shallow murmers or polite nods as we walk together towards the school where I will watch one HIV session before moving onto the football field for practice.
When the doors to the classroom open I witness transformation. The chatter begins. They unwrap their sarongs, revealing shorts and jeans and whatever sportswear they could find in this small village. The traditional long skirts that had carried these girls through the curious eyes of the village are now piled on dark, dusty chairs and desks. Snatches of color catch sunlight that streams through the one open window of the classroom. The same sunlight reflects white teeth and glittering earings dangling from the lobes of the girls. This is the first time I realize that these girls have prepared for our visit. They have dressed in their best, and are really here to show us what they know.
The session starts with a song. One girl stands in front, and lets her voice ring across the classroom. She stands tall and her voice is strong, but she still will not allow me to hold eye contact. The rest of the girls respond to her call, clapping their hands in rhythm.
When we move onto the football field, the stiff air is filled with shrieks of laughter, cries of delight, as the girls run together, stopping and standing together every time the whistle blows. This team is learning the game under the patient instruction of one of my coaches and I can see them beginning to assert themselves when the football comes out. One girl stands tall, her foot firmly planted on the ball; she seems proud to have it at her feet and even prouder to know what to do with it when the whistle blows. I join the drill, show off a little juke here, and smile to myself as I see some of the girls try out the same trick. The expressions of these girls are celebrational, cheerful, and still very timid, as though they are sure that at any moment someone could break the spell, and they just like that they would no longer be football players; they would again be water carriers, and future wives.
After practice, lots of photos and laughter, I find myself back on the long bouncy dirt road, headed home with leftover sun clouding my head, and weighting my eyes. I think back on the sarongs piled in the streaming light of the classroom, on the sound of the girls as they kicked and ran. I wonder to myself what might be gained and what might be shed in the weeks and months to come of this village football team.
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