The morning starts to the hard fresh breezes off the Atlantic coast. Halfway between day and dreams, I feel that I am poised halfway up a cliff. I am clinging to the rocks, stagnant and tired. It has been a long, hard climb, and I feel disheartened to continue. In this early morning state, I am no longer myself, but the whole world. I am not the one with tired fingers, I am my father who fights to keep his job; I am my mother who wonders how she will afford to send her children to the doctor; I am my sister who see no more hope in her school; I am my brother will no longer accept the destruction of the environment; I am my friend whose reproductive rights are being stripped away from her; I am my lover who watches his countrymen work long hours for a bowl of rice while billions are being spent on a useless war; I have stretched and reached to find footing; I have climbed with hope, with vision that the world could be better than what I see before my eyes. I am tired.
And now I wake. The winds are rough and cold, alive; they whisper to me of change. But I am afraid of what change could mean. Change is a word I have heard countless times and have somehow learned to stop listening to. Over the past eight years, Change has meant more war, less civil rights; more money for the big business, less for schools. Change has meant my library closing and my faith in democracy evaporating. But over the past year I have heard a new voice of change, and this one is filled with hope, a hope that I can believe in.
Change today in the USA means change in the world. I know because I here it shouted and whispered by dark tongues and hopeful faces in the streets of Dakar and Bamako. People shout ‘Obama’ as I walk down the street. And for the first time in my adult life I am proud to respond with a great smile, a grin, proud to say I share their hope and support their vision, and that this day could mean change in the way I have always envisioned it.
Today the wind is full, thick with a heavy decision in the hands of American Voters. We are poised to move on, but we must make the choice to do so together. Please help me keep climbing. Vote Obama.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Thursday, October 2, 2008
a meal for two
To stand in the kitchen with your man after a long week of nights out can be intimidating. The veggies wilt on the counter, protesting your neglect by looking as unappetizing and uncreative as possible. Not only are you faced with the challenge of creating a meal you both enjoy with this motley crew of faded colors, you realize that it has been a long time since you have spent time ‘just being’ with him. While you are both smiling and bright with friends, dialogue between you has rusted a bit, like the not so sharp knife you brandish for the vegetables.
It is best to start with the garlic. The pungent little heads don’t fade and will rarely disappoint. Slowly you begin to relax into the quick slicing rhythm and the familiar spicy aroma. When he smells the sautéing onions, he decides to warm up too and reaches to measure out water for the bulgar. Soon you are both negotiating the small stovetop, and the quick laughter comes back. You tease each other for silly exploits with friends as you slice into the eggplant and discover that its inner flesh looks sweeter than its skin. As he adds the thinly sliced okra, you marvel at the delicate flower shape and slippery seeds inside the pods. You inhale the silence and activity of this communal meal with deep contentment.
After you have sat down, the heavy ceramic plates are empty, and your bellies full, he reaches into the into the cast iron pan and licks his finger. You pick the last lonely eggplant. Soon the heavy pan is gleaming clean. He sighs, “That was a good meal; Its been a long time since I’ve eaten a meal I really enjoy” You nod. “me too, thanks”.
It is best to start with the garlic. The pungent little heads don’t fade and will rarely disappoint. Slowly you begin to relax into the quick slicing rhythm and the familiar spicy aroma. When he smells the sautéing onions, he decides to warm up too and reaches to measure out water for the bulgar. Soon you are both negotiating the small stovetop, and the quick laughter comes back. You tease each other for silly exploits with friends as you slice into the eggplant and discover that its inner flesh looks sweeter than its skin. As he adds the thinly sliced okra, you marvel at the delicate flower shape and slippery seeds inside the pods. You inhale the silence and activity of this communal meal with deep contentment.
After you have sat down, the heavy ceramic plates are empty, and your bellies full, he reaches into the into the cast iron pan and licks his finger. You pick the last lonely eggplant. Soon the heavy pan is gleaming clean. He sighs, “That was a good meal; Its been a long time since I’ve eaten a meal I really enjoy” You nod. “me too, thanks”.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Dogon Country Part 1
Pays Dogon lifts me out of slowness. The houses are quiet and square; yellow gray granaries are topped with woven grass hats that twist and lean like drunken dwarfs. As we wind through walled avenues, children attach themselves to us, small grimy fingers easing into our sweaty palms. The old men have creases in their faces; each wrinkle seems to tell the story sun and dirt. One old man with a wide straw hat strikes up a conversation with Yann as he shows him how to create fire out of flint to light his pipe. Everything is small and mud coloured except the tall baobab trees that rise out of the dry earth.
In this country we walk- shedding sweat, gathering dust and becoming more and more awed by the ancient complexity of the towns traditions and their apparent timeless harmony with nature. We pick our way down cliffs, swirled with granite, punctuated by the vibrant green of trees that only show during the few months of rain. Below us stretches a plane that helps me understand how people once believed the world was flat. Wandering troupes of goats and cattle gather where the waterfalls flow.
It is the morning after the rain. Before the clouds came we pointed out stars in an endless sky; I found the direction of the North Star by looking at the Big Dipper. I lay on the roof with Yann, watching sparrows dart through the sky. The sun rises slowly in the east, levelling layers of colour into a brightening sky. I do Yoga, pray, feel peace.
Now I am looking into the cliffs, at the houses that make this country famous. At the top of a steep, rocky incline stretches a row of tall rectangular structures. They are the base of a cliff that rises imposingly another 200 feet into the blue sky. I see small squares of darkness that are windows and yawning gaps that seem to form caves. All of the buildings seem too small to be houses.
The story is that in the 11th century, the Dogon people began a migration, fleeing from Islam in Segou, to finally arrive here in the 14th century. They found the cliffs already inhabited by Pygmies, a race of very small people who seemed to fly to their tiny dwellings in the cliffs. Eventually, the Dogon pushed the Pygmies out and began building their own communities in the cool, dry rock. Over the centuries, the Dogon people have developed a distinct cultural identity, which they maintain today despite heavy tourist traffic and an increasingly challenging environment. This culture is evident in their burial rituals, their elaborate dances, their secret dialects. I am particularly impressed by the circumcision ritual, which all adolescent boys must go through. They spend several months secluded together, learning a secret dialect. When the time comes, after several rituals and dances, they present themselves to the blacksmith. The blacksmith tosses a lime into the air and tells the boy to watch the lime. By the time the lime has fallen, so has the foreskin. I imagine a green lime spinning into the great blue sky, symbol of change.
Our daily trek starts in music when we stop to watch the women pounding mil (like couscous) and Karité (Shea butter) in a communal mortar. The morning is filled with a rhythmic pounding as all across the village, women circle around carved wooden bowls on pedestals with tall walls. Most have babies strapped to their backs in bright indigo fabrics and hold a four foot long staff, carved thin in the centre for better grip. One woman starts by raising her staff high above her head, then hurling it into the bowl, as hers comes out, the next woman’s’ staff falls into the empty space, and finally, the third woman throws her staff in. The pounders fall rhythmically into the bowl, and as the women notice us watching, they grow playful, singing and clapping their hands as they throw their staffs ever higher into the air and pound them ever more violently into the bowl. As often happens in moments like these, I am first touched by the romanticism, the familiarity and simplicity of this daily ritual. The women, their babies, clapping their hands, singing to hold the rhythm fills me with a sense of nostalgia for some past that may never have existed where I come from. Even so, a part of me recognizes how hard these women work for so little. There must only be two or three handfuls of grain in each bowl and the women spend several hours each morning pounding out lunch or creating the butter we pay loads for in the west. After I have tried my hand at the pounding, to the great amusement and delight of these women, I wave goodbye and begin to make my way up to the cliffs.
The Dogon are known to have astronomical knowledge that surpasses and surprises modern day scientists; unfortunately the old hunter who was going to show us has drunk too much local beer, and asks us to come back another time. Instead, we look in awe at the hanging stuffed monkeys, leopards, snakes, beetles, and other unidentifiable animals. He will use these to heal villagers and perform rituals
In this country we walk- shedding sweat, gathering dust and becoming more and more awed by the ancient complexity of the towns traditions and their apparent timeless harmony with nature. We pick our way down cliffs, swirled with granite, punctuated by the vibrant green of trees that only show during the few months of rain. Below us stretches a plane that helps me understand how people once believed the world was flat. Wandering troupes of goats and cattle gather where the waterfalls flow.
It is the morning after the rain. Before the clouds came we pointed out stars in an endless sky; I found the direction of the North Star by looking at the Big Dipper. I lay on the roof with Yann, watching sparrows dart through the sky. The sun rises slowly in the east, levelling layers of colour into a brightening sky. I do Yoga, pray, feel peace.
Now I am looking into the cliffs, at the houses that make this country famous. At the top of a steep, rocky incline stretches a row of tall rectangular structures. They are the base of a cliff that rises imposingly another 200 feet into the blue sky. I see small squares of darkness that are windows and yawning gaps that seem to form caves. All of the buildings seem too small to be houses.
The story is that in the 11th century, the Dogon people began a migration, fleeing from Islam in Segou, to finally arrive here in the 14th century. They found the cliffs already inhabited by Pygmies, a race of very small people who seemed to fly to their tiny dwellings in the cliffs. Eventually, the Dogon pushed the Pygmies out and began building their own communities in the cool, dry rock. Over the centuries, the Dogon people have developed a distinct cultural identity, which they maintain today despite heavy tourist traffic and an increasingly challenging environment. This culture is evident in their burial rituals, their elaborate dances, their secret dialects. I am particularly impressed by the circumcision ritual, which all adolescent boys must go through. They spend several months secluded together, learning a secret dialect. When the time comes, after several rituals and dances, they present themselves to the blacksmith. The blacksmith tosses a lime into the air and tells the boy to watch the lime. By the time the lime has fallen, so has the foreskin. I imagine a green lime spinning into the great blue sky, symbol of change.
Our daily trek starts in music when we stop to watch the women pounding mil (like couscous) and Karité (Shea butter) in a communal mortar. The morning is filled with a rhythmic pounding as all across the village, women circle around carved wooden bowls on pedestals with tall walls. Most have babies strapped to their backs in bright indigo fabrics and hold a four foot long staff, carved thin in the centre for better grip. One woman starts by raising her staff high above her head, then hurling it into the bowl, as hers comes out, the next woman’s’ staff falls into the empty space, and finally, the third woman throws her staff in. The pounders fall rhythmically into the bowl, and as the women notice us watching, they grow playful, singing and clapping their hands as they throw their staffs ever higher into the air and pound them ever more violently into the bowl. As often happens in moments like these, I am first touched by the romanticism, the familiarity and simplicity of this daily ritual. The women, their babies, clapping their hands, singing to hold the rhythm fills me with a sense of nostalgia for some past that may never have existed where I come from. Even so, a part of me recognizes how hard these women work for so little. There must only be two or three handfuls of grain in each bowl and the women spend several hours each morning pounding out lunch or creating the butter we pay loads for in the west. After I have tried my hand at the pounding, to the great amusement and delight of these women, I wave goodbye and begin to make my way up to the cliffs.
The Dogon are known to have astronomical knowledge that surpasses and surprises modern day scientists; unfortunately the old hunter who was going to show us has drunk too much local beer, and asks us to come back another time. Instead, we look in awe at the hanging stuffed monkeys, leopards, snakes, beetles, and other unidentifiable animals. He will use these to heal villagers and perform rituals
Monday, September 1, 2008
One coach
Fily stands in front of the classroom. His hands are spidered together, his voice gentle and convincing as he tells his students why he believes in AIDS. He has just asked his class to defend their beliefs in the existence of nonexistence of the disease. After listening to his students express themselves, and summarizing their arguments, Fily steps up, and stands quietly in from of the room, telling why he believes in AIDS. The transpiring young faces lean towards him like lilies, eyes fixed on him, waving fans of hands pause as his words strike into their consciousness.
Fily once played football with a man who was big, strong, fast. No one had believed this teammate when he told them he was HIV+ until he began to grow progressively weaker and skinnier, and finally passed away. Fily finishes by talking about how AIDS has slowly progressed in his country. “I’m first here for myself. I believe in it. Second, I’m here for my family; I’m here for you; I am finally here for Mali.”
110° heat. 100 flies. 50 students. One coach. In this hot, dusty classroom, someone is making a difference.
Fily once played football with a man who was big, strong, fast. No one had believed this teammate when he told them he was HIV+ until he began to grow progressively weaker and skinnier, and finally passed away. Fily finishes by talking about how AIDS has slowly progressed in his country. “I’m first here for myself. I believe in it. Second, I’m here for my family; I’m here for you; I am finally here for Mali.”
110° heat. 100 flies. 50 students. One coach. In this hot, dusty classroom, someone is making a difference.
Friday, May 30, 2008
remembering to sing
I just passed through a really rough period where I felt lost, self absorbed, lonely, and so exhausted that I couldn't find the time to love myself, let alone anyone else. My heart hurt, my stomach grew tight, I cried, I missed home, I noticed every horrible aspect about life here and continued to compare it to the paradise of Oregon; I couldn't respond to the problems of my friends because I was so wrapped up in my own.
As I began to realize that People I haven’t heard from in ages, the friends on the periphery and the close ones too sent emails reminding me of who I once was and who I strive to be: someone who cherishes life and celebrates it with compassion, understanding and acceptance. My old roommate, Chris, sent an email mentioning a time he eavesdropped on me singing into the wind as I rode away from the house on my bike. A postcard from my dear friend, Jill: flowers in Paris; notes from close friends at home expressing frustrations that mirrored my own; a package from home full of chocolates and silly photos of my youngest sister. I can tell by the light in the photos that it is midmorning, and by her expression that my mom probably said, 'Hey, let me take some pictures of you to send to your older sister' and Kai probably rolled her eyes, then got into the role with her tongue deeply planted into her cheek. All these messages, images, thoughts tumbling in on me from far away, started to tug back at me. 'You are not alone', they all seemed to be whispering. It was strange to have such an influx at a time when it was most needed and least asked for. Perhaps more than anything, your messages gave me faith that I am more connected than I had originally thought.
Today, the sun is just as punishing as it was last week; I have just as much work and just as little time; I will still be called 'White girl', or worse ' Pink Ears' by strangers on the street; but something has changed. I have poked my head back out of the shell, and begin to notice that there is light outside. That light is the presence of people and love around me, close and far away. Rather than close my eyes and ears to the opening day, I stand on my roof and do yoga, then slip back downstairs to wake Yann with gentle touches on his back. I notice that perhaps it is more therapeutic for me than for him, watching my fingers trail across his smooth skin, the rise and fall of his body with the steady rhythm of his breath. In some way, me touching him was my way of also trying to touch everyone else who is reaching towards me through letters and emails and facebook comments. And these words are my way of saying thanks, instead of grabbing you in a hug as I would like to do.
I sit on the back of my moto on the way to work this morning, zipping past the Sotramas and dodging potholes. The aroma of early morning cooking fires mixes with the fumes of exhaust and heavy dust. I suppose it's no bicycle and these are not the deep green streets of Portland I loved to fly down. Nonetheless, I see my shadow float past the shops, and rather than notice the un-swept garbage, today I notice the quality of light on the oil stained street, and I hear my own voice in the wind, and it is singing.
As I began to realize that People I haven’t heard from in ages, the friends on the periphery and the close ones too sent emails reminding me of who I once was and who I strive to be: someone who cherishes life and celebrates it with compassion, understanding and acceptance. My old roommate, Chris, sent an email mentioning a time he eavesdropped on me singing into the wind as I rode away from the house on my bike. A postcard from my dear friend, Jill: flowers in Paris; notes from close friends at home expressing frustrations that mirrored my own; a package from home full of chocolates and silly photos of my youngest sister. I can tell by the light in the photos that it is midmorning, and by her expression that my mom probably said, 'Hey, let me take some pictures of you to send to your older sister' and Kai probably rolled her eyes, then got into the role with her tongue deeply planted into her cheek. All these messages, images, thoughts tumbling in on me from far away, started to tug back at me. 'You are not alone', they all seemed to be whispering. It was strange to have such an influx at a time when it was most needed and least asked for. Perhaps more than anything, your messages gave me faith that I am more connected than I had originally thought.
Today, the sun is just as punishing as it was last week; I have just as much work and just as little time; I will still be called 'White girl', or worse ' Pink Ears' by strangers on the street; but something has changed. I have poked my head back out of the shell, and begin to notice that there is light outside. That light is the presence of people and love around me, close and far away. Rather than close my eyes and ears to the opening day, I stand on my roof and do yoga, then slip back downstairs to wake Yann with gentle touches on his back. I notice that perhaps it is more therapeutic for me than for him, watching my fingers trail across his smooth skin, the rise and fall of his body with the steady rhythm of his breath. In some way, me touching him was my way of also trying to touch everyone else who is reaching towards me through letters and emails and facebook comments. And these words are my way of saying thanks, instead of grabbing you in a hug as I would like to do.
I sit on the back of my moto on the way to work this morning, zipping past the Sotramas and dodging potholes. The aroma of early morning cooking fires mixes with the fumes of exhaust and heavy dust. I suppose it's no bicycle and these are not the deep green streets of Portland I loved to fly down. Nonetheless, I see my shadow float past the shops, and rather than notice the un-swept garbage, today I notice the quality of light on the oil stained street, and I hear my own voice in the wind, and it is singing.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Tournaments!
It’s a hot Saturday afternoon before the sun has had a chance to sink low enough over the horizon to provide any shade. When I arrive at the field it is already teaming with kids. They crowd around under the plastic tent, hanging over the metal chairs and milling around the dirt. Excitement hums in the air, punctuated by the rhythmic sound of Bambara, its heavy round syllables and consonants swinging around my head like mosquitoes. The soccer field is a rocky dirt pitch slanting away from the mayor’s office, about the size of half a regulation size field. The goals are constructed of branches stuck in the ground, connected at the top by a thin piece of string. One of the teams has marked the boundaries of the pitch with white chalk. A tall tree stands about 18 yards from the downhill goal.
As I take a seat under the tent, I greet the group of girls behind me. They are animated and warm towards me. ‘Eh togo?’ they ask ‘What’s your name?’ When I reply that my Malian name is Ami Traore, there are some cries of approval ‘ee yeh balimomuso yeh!’ from my fellow Traores; and other clucks of disapproval from the dreaded cousin ‘Diarras’. ‘Ahhh, ee beh shun dun’ ‘Hah hah! You eat beans’ they laugh. This is the favourite Malian Joke between people who have last names such as Traore and Diarra. Soon I learn that these girls are one of the teams that will be playing in the final match. They are in the 7th class and will be playing against the 9th class. I ask them if they are excited, and if they are ready, they answer in unison: ‘Oh yes we are; we may be smaller than the other girls but we are going to crush them!’
As the coach who has organized the whole event arrives and distributes jerseys to the delight of each team, I reflect on how this tournament came to be. Lamine Samake is a Coaching for Hope educator, who has been trained by my project as a quality football coach and HIV educator. He has taken his role farther than many, and become engaged as a community actor in Same, a suburb at the foot of the hills surrounding Bamako. Lamine has taken it upon himself to work with several groups of youth, employing the Coaching for Hope tactic of using football to share important social messages with the youth of his community. At the insistence of these youth, Lamine organized a football tournament. The young people in Same organized their own teams, chose captains, and trained for the competition in football and HIV knowledge. Before each match, Lamine would ask a series of questions about sexual health and HIV. The team’s responses to these questions contributed to the final score of the match; the success of the team depended not only on the team’s skills on the pitch, but also on their collective knowledge of HIV and ways they could protect themselves from it.
I turn back to the girls, and ask how they feel about their HIV knowledge. ‘Oh, great!’ they answer, and then rattle off the modes of transmission for me. ‘We also decided it would be important to share this with our families, so we have decided to go as a team, door to door in our neighbourhood to talk about it with our friends and their families’ mentions the captain of the team. The whistle blows and I am beckoned onto the field to greet the two teams before they start to play. I shake hands, say good luck, and initiate the kick off before returning to my seat.
The girls match is violent, messy, and passionate. The girls had never had a chance to play before Lamine introduced them to football, and have had no formal training but their passion in playing is evident. They are wearing soccer jerseys that my old Ashland High School had sent over, and the joy I get from watching my old jerseys on these girls is indescribable. When the first and only goal of the match is scored by a girl on ‘my team’ the whole crowd streams onto the field, dancing, running, arms flapping, music pumping; the girl who scored is beaming like she just won the lottery.
In terms of Soccer, the boys match is high quality. I watch them negotiate the terrain change, the rocks, and the tree with finesse and ease, wondering how our Ashland boys might fare in similar conditions. Their passes are precise; their headers are firm; their shots, strong. They communicate minimally but effectively. This is serious business and they play as if this were the champion’s league.
The evening shadows have grown longer, cutting the heat of the day, but not the passion of the crowd, which has grown to enclose the field three persons thick ¾ of the way around. The village chief and I hand out soccer balls to the winning teams; the DJ pumps up the music; I prepare to leave. As I start my bike, I look over to see a group huddled together over a school notebook. I catch a glimpse of the page. At the top it says ‘Team name: AC Barcelona’ followed by the list of players. The youth are already preparing for another tournament!
As I take a seat under the tent, I greet the group of girls behind me. They are animated and warm towards me. ‘Eh togo?’ they ask ‘What’s your name?’ When I reply that my Malian name is Ami Traore, there are some cries of approval ‘ee yeh balimomuso yeh!’ from my fellow Traores; and other clucks of disapproval from the dreaded cousin ‘Diarras’. ‘Ahhh, ee beh shun dun’ ‘Hah hah! You eat beans’ they laugh. This is the favourite Malian Joke between people who have last names such as Traore and Diarra. Soon I learn that these girls are one of the teams that will be playing in the final match. They are in the 7th class and will be playing against the 9th class. I ask them if they are excited, and if they are ready, they answer in unison: ‘Oh yes we are; we may be smaller than the other girls but we are going to crush them!’
As the coach who has organized the whole event arrives and distributes jerseys to the delight of each team, I reflect on how this tournament came to be. Lamine Samake is a Coaching for Hope educator, who has been trained by my project as a quality football coach and HIV educator. He has taken his role farther than many, and become engaged as a community actor in Same, a suburb at the foot of the hills surrounding Bamako. Lamine has taken it upon himself to work with several groups of youth, employing the Coaching for Hope tactic of using football to share important social messages with the youth of his community. At the insistence of these youth, Lamine organized a football tournament. The young people in Same organized their own teams, chose captains, and trained for the competition in football and HIV knowledge. Before each match, Lamine would ask a series of questions about sexual health and HIV. The team’s responses to these questions contributed to the final score of the match; the success of the team depended not only on the team’s skills on the pitch, but also on their collective knowledge of HIV and ways they could protect themselves from it.
I turn back to the girls, and ask how they feel about their HIV knowledge. ‘Oh, great!’ they answer, and then rattle off the modes of transmission for me. ‘We also decided it would be important to share this with our families, so we have decided to go as a team, door to door in our neighbourhood to talk about it with our friends and their families’ mentions the captain of the team. The whistle blows and I am beckoned onto the field to greet the two teams before they start to play. I shake hands, say good luck, and initiate the kick off before returning to my seat.
The girls match is violent, messy, and passionate. The girls had never had a chance to play before Lamine introduced them to football, and have had no formal training but their passion in playing is evident. They are wearing soccer jerseys that my old Ashland High School had sent over, and the joy I get from watching my old jerseys on these girls is indescribable. When the first and only goal of the match is scored by a girl on ‘my team’ the whole crowd streams onto the field, dancing, running, arms flapping, music pumping; the girl who scored is beaming like she just won the lottery.
In terms of Soccer, the boys match is high quality. I watch them negotiate the terrain change, the rocks, and the tree with finesse and ease, wondering how our Ashland boys might fare in similar conditions. Their passes are precise; their headers are firm; their shots, strong. They communicate minimally but effectively. This is serious business and they play as if this were the champion’s league.
The evening shadows have grown longer, cutting the heat of the day, but not the passion of the crowd, which has grown to enclose the field three persons thick ¾ of the way around. The village chief and I hand out soccer balls to the winning teams; the DJ pumps up the music; I prepare to leave. As I start my bike, I look over to see a group huddled together over a school notebook. I catch a glimpse of the page. At the top it says ‘Team name: AC Barcelona’ followed by the list of players. The youth are already preparing for another tournament!
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Shey has a new Address
Skillshare International
Sheylan Yearsley
BP E4710
Bamako Mali
Please let me know if you send something my way because we check the box rarely.
Sheylan Yearsley
BP E4710
Bamako Mali
Please let me know if you send something my way because we check the box rarely.
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.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Monday, February 25, 2008
25.2.2008 Dance Weekend in Selingue
So, After my criticisms of the Toubabous (that means white folk in Bambara) with their cameras, I finally got ahold of one, and could not resist the urge to connect in every way possible to the young boys in the boats. To me, they are poetry in motion. Watching the boats skim across the water in the morning haze is to me equivalent of watching the sun set over the mountains I love, or standing awed in front of a michaelangelo masterpeice. Something about the simplicity of the boats and the asymmetry of the movements to propelle them holds me enchanted.
This weekend I took a short trip with some girlfriends to a lakside village for a dance workshop and an escape from the pollution and noise of Bamako. I will not give a full account of the weekend, but here are some words I would use to capture what the space and journey was to me.
Prayers clothe the night
Birds unveil the morning.
The village lives in distant
sounds, waking in shifts to
the weeping faded sun.
The Lake is an empty slate
calling me from dreams,
a silver palate that collects
shadowy slivers of boy. The
fishermen are young, slim as their
canoes, calm as the water,
alone in the quiet dance
of their rowing.
Our dance is a vital
powerful expression of life
celebrating a body
-my body, body of a friend,
the body of Fanta
who moves in grace at seventy.
Even wrinkles smile through the rhythm.
We are 5 white girls...
the drums quiet and slow to our shy,
awkward movements. Our minds may
know keyboards and computers so well
but our bodies are lost to this primal beat
But when I draw close, the music
derobes me of my shame, and I rejoice
with deep, sanguine movements
Above us, the dry forest shudders in the breeze.
We stamp dust into our noses.
And smile the sweat from our eyes.
Each of us takes, in her own way, some thread
of that rhythm and joy. The vitality lives
still as the fingers find rhythm on the keyboard.
This weekend I took a short trip with some girlfriends to a lakside village for a dance workshop and an escape from the pollution and noise of Bamako. I will not give a full account of the weekend, but here are some words I would use to capture what the space and journey was to me.
Prayers clothe the night
Birds unveil the morning.
The village lives in distant
sounds, waking in shifts to
the weeping faded sun.
The Lake is an empty slate
calling me from dreams,
a silver palate that collects
shadowy slivers of boy. The
fishermen are young, slim as their
canoes, calm as the water,
alone in the quiet dance
of their rowing.
Our dance is a vital
powerful expression of life
celebrating a body
-my body, body of a friend,
the body of Fanta
who moves in grace at seventy.
Even wrinkles smile through the rhythm.
We are 5 white girls...
the drums quiet and slow to our shy,
awkward movements. Our minds may
know keyboards and computers so well
but our bodies are lost to this primal beat
But when I draw close, the music
derobes me of my shame, and I rejoice
with deep, sanguine movements
Above us, the dry forest shudders in the breeze.
We stamp dust into our noses.
And smile the sweat from our eyes.
Each of us takes, in her own way, some thread
of that rhythm and joy. The vitality lives
still as the fingers find rhythm on the keyboard.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
18.1.2008 Sunset on the Niger
I’m sitting on the edge of a dripping tangerine horizon; with each drum beat the sun sinks lower into to the jagged charcoal plateaus, becomes one glowing sliver, and levels below the hazy distant hills. I am left with the glowing tableau of soft peach clouds and the sharp spear of a canoe slicing through rippling water. The fishermen are pulling in their nets: a man in front gathering hand over hand the days catch while the thin shadow of a boy pushes the long pole into the mud below, propelling the slim boat through the water.
Black silhouettes moving across sun-streaked water - those of us on the shore appreciate the scene for its graceful harmony: a sunset dance in a foreign land. Scores of westerners in zip off nylon pants line the edge of the broken tiled bar terrace at the edge of the river; sunburnt faces straining into the extended LCD screens, ample bellies thrust over wide set feet in sturdy shoes. They click away to capture the moment before turning back to their cold beers. I don’t have a camera with me, otherwise, I too would probably be clicking away with the rest of them. Instead I pick up my pen and wonder, as I often do, how the scene appears from the eyes of the boy in the boat. This photo-op could mean for him, nothing more than survival.
Black silhouettes moving across sun-streaked water - those of us on the shore appreciate the scene for its graceful harmony: a sunset dance in a foreign land. Scores of westerners in zip off nylon pants line the edge of the broken tiled bar terrace at the edge of the river; sunburnt faces straining into the extended LCD screens, ample bellies thrust over wide set feet in sturdy shoes. They click away to capture the moment before turning back to their cold beers. I don’t have a camera with me, otherwise, I too would probably be clicking away with the rest of them. Instead I pick up my pen and wonder, as I often do, how the scene appears from the eyes of the boy in the boat. This photo-op could mean for him, nothing more than survival.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Homecoming?
Entering Casablanca airport for the final leg of my flight back to Bamako feels like a strange déjà vu. I retrace my steps through the long terminal, and at the very end of the waiting lounge, I finally come upon my gate. Seeing the people waiting for my flight I feel myself slipping back into West African time. Under harsh stretches of florescent lights, colourful sleeping lumps cluster together over plastic rugs; the long robed men, skinny with skull caps and small Qurans in hand; the round women, their heads, shoulders, and shapeless bodies covered with brilliant, endless yards of fabric.
At the sight of this human quilt, my heart lightens. Over the course of preparing to come back, a rough hand had been constricting my chest, tightening my body in the worst type of fear: fear of my own weakness.. There had been so many moments of pure and utter bliss: grinning through face-shots of fresh powder while skiing with my brother; watching the sunset over the Brighton Pier with a pen in hand, a glass of wine, red flags reflected in the darkening window; losing myself in the soft warmth of a three year old cheeks as he gives me butterfly kisses; sunlight over the faces of my family and friends as they bid me good bye. There were moments that I felt so full, I was sure I would burst with happiness. Perhaps that bursting sensation led me closer to that precarious edge of fear and the tight grip as it knotted itself into my belly and crept up my ribcage. I kept asking myself: Do I need this snow, this wine, this type of beauty to survive? I was loving it all so much, a huge part of me was screaming YES!
Waiting for the boarding call, I watch the people around me. As different as they are, they are also familiar to me. Even though their language is still sludge on my tongue and I will never pull off the gorgeous bobo style of these women, I am loosening back into this world, and it is welcoming me. In the same way I received so much knowing, unconditional love from my friends, family, even strangers on this trip home, I begin to feel its effect on me as it begins to soak back out of me towards these strangers. This time, however, the soaking is filling me up at the same time. Perhaps I am coming home. At least for now, This feels right.
At the sight of this human quilt, my heart lightens. Over the course of preparing to come back, a rough hand had been constricting my chest, tightening my body in the worst type of fear: fear of my own weakness.. There had been so many moments of pure and utter bliss: grinning through face-shots of fresh powder while skiing with my brother; watching the sunset over the Brighton Pier with a pen in hand, a glass of wine, red flags reflected in the darkening window; losing myself in the soft warmth of a three year old cheeks as he gives me butterfly kisses; sunlight over the faces of my family and friends as they bid me good bye. There were moments that I felt so full, I was sure I would burst with happiness. Perhaps that bursting sensation led me closer to that precarious edge of fear and the tight grip as it knotted itself into my belly and crept up my ribcage. I kept asking myself: Do I need this snow, this wine, this type of beauty to survive? I was loving it all so much, a huge part of me was screaming YES!
Waiting for the boarding call, I watch the people around me. As different as they are, they are also familiar to me. Even though their language is still sludge on my tongue and I will never pull off the gorgeous bobo style of these women, I am loosening back into this world, and it is welcoming me. In the same way I received so much knowing, unconditional love from my friends, family, even strangers on this trip home, I begin to feel its effect on me as it begins to soak back out of me towards these strangers. This time, however, the soaking is filling me up at the same time. Perhaps I am coming home. At least for now, This feels right.
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