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.
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.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Homecoming Thoughts
1.12.07
Coming home. I think my eyes have been covered by a thin veil that makes every ice edged ivy leaf and dried blade of grass shimmer with beauty. I watch the hills and lake and wintry trees slide by on that familiar drive to town and imagine truthfully that I may have never seen such splendor. None of the oases and cliffs and busy street markets of Africa or the grand art museums and architecture of Europe touch me in quite the same way as this somber, overcast morning of frost and dry grass. This is my home and right now, home is more awe-inspiring than any distant corner of the world.
This desperate connection to the place I was born and raised extends far beyond the landscape. It is the people who make this space so unique. Again, my eyes may still be shrouded but I see in each rosy cheeked face the potential, and especially the desire to achieve wholeness. I sit in the coffee shop surrounded by strangers, sipping tea and absorbing the gentle voices around me. An old man with one crossed eye is teaching his grandson how to play chess; a large man in Carharts studies a fish and game manual over his latte; two women share intimacies and wild hair, cupping mugs of steaming coffee. I suck it all in.
This leisure is like a drug to me: it lures me into comfort and appreciation, giving me the illusion that I can’t live outside of such a fulfilling space. I try to absorb it so that I can understand how to bring back to Africa this concept of easy living, this engagement with one another, and do it without the props of easy Saturday afternoons or hot coffee shops.
11.12.07
The season is folding into itself in sheaths of cold air. I pull my scarf closer around my neck and experience the shift with joy in my cheeks and a knot in my stomach. I open a new journal today with decidedly less hope than my last, but with a vision perhaps more open to the realities I am facing. Coming home has been both an enormous gift and a challenging shift in perspective. My spirit soars into this cool space but I find with every homecoming that elements of this American life become harder and harder to accept. I’ve dreamt of this: crosswalks and snow, coffee shops and bookstores; but the abundance of the season, the excess of it sometimes sickens me- especially because I am a part of it.
I just received an email from Yann who fears that famine will strike his country in the next year due to poor rainfall. I contemplate while sipping my latte and try to avoid reaction by thinking about the fresh tracks I’d like to carve the next day. But my mind drifts back and I remember images from a photobook at Powells. Emaciated children, men, women from the Sahel; they could have been my neighbors; they could be his family. What kind of person am I that I want so badly to turn my head, to believe that this doesn’t exist? That I succeed in doing so?
My reaction to these clashing realities is inertia and a sense of only being halfway in my experiences, whether I am in the States or in Africa. I get lost, my head and heart swinging in an endless pendulum between what I want and what I know. I tip and sway out of balance because I can’t seem to find the reconciliation between myself, my hopes and the situation of this world.
23.12.07
As always, I find peace in the small moments, joys that bring me back to the unconditional knowledge of who I am regardless of the relentless questions and challenges I put myself through. My grin spreads across my face as I arc my first turns in two seasons. Knowing that my body remembers the movements and adjusts so easily to steep terrain as I slalom through fir tree tips reminds me of that woman who is strong and sure and always knows where her next move will be. Watching the fire on a cold winter night while neighbors, friends and family share stories, laughter, and music reminds me of how easy it feels to belong to a community, and of how simple our joys can be. Sledding through the trees by the light of the full moon, tumbling from the sled as dark silhouettes spin above my head shows me again the laughing child who sees potential for celebration and discovery around every bend. Hearing from you, the people that read this blog, makes me realize the worth of the journey I have chosen. I am truly blessed.
Coming home. I think my eyes have been covered by a thin veil that makes every ice edged ivy leaf and dried blade of grass shimmer with beauty. I watch the hills and lake and wintry trees slide by on that familiar drive to town and imagine truthfully that I may have never seen such splendor. None of the oases and cliffs and busy street markets of Africa or the grand art museums and architecture of Europe touch me in quite the same way as this somber, overcast morning of frost and dry grass. This is my home and right now, home is more awe-inspiring than any distant corner of the world.
This desperate connection to the place I was born and raised extends far beyond the landscape. It is the people who make this space so unique. Again, my eyes may still be shrouded but I see in each rosy cheeked face the potential, and especially the desire to achieve wholeness. I sit in the coffee shop surrounded by strangers, sipping tea and absorbing the gentle voices around me. An old man with one crossed eye is teaching his grandson how to play chess; a large man in Carharts studies a fish and game manual over his latte; two women share intimacies and wild hair, cupping mugs of steaming coffee. I suck it all in.
This leisure is like a drug to me: it lures me into comfort and appreciation, giving me the illusion that I can’t live outside of such a fulfilling space. I try to absorb it so that I can understand how to bring back to Africa this concept of easy living, this engagement with one another, and do it without the props of easy Saturday afternoons or hot coffee shops.
11.12.07
The season is folding into itself in sheaths of cold air. I pull my scarf closer around my neck and experience the shift with joy in my cheeks and a knot in my stomach. I open a new journal today with decidedly less hope than my last, but with a vision perhaps more open to the realities I am facing. Coming home has been both an enormous gift and a challenging shift in perspective. My spirit soars into this cool space but I find with every homecoming that elements of this American life become harder and harder to accept. I’ve dreamt of this: crosswalks and snow, coffee shops and bookstores; but the abundance of the season, the excess of it sometimes sickens me- especially because I am a part of it.
I just received an email from Yann who fears that famine will strike his country in the next year due to poor rainfall. I contemplate while sipping my latte and try to avoid reaction by thinking about the fresh tracks I’d like to carve the next day. But my mind drifts back and I remember images from a photobook at Powells. Emaciated children, men, women from the Sahel; they could have been my neighbors; they could be his family. What kind of person am I that I want so badly to turn my head, to believe that this doesn’t exist? That I succeed in doing so?
My reaction to these clashing realities is inertia and a sense of only being halfway in my experiences, whether I am in the States or in Africa. I get lost, my head and heart swinging in an endless pendulum between what I want and what I know. I tip and sway out of balance because I can’t seem to find the reconciliation between myself, my hopes and the situation of this world.
23.12.07
As always, I find peace in the small moments, joys that bring me back to the unconditional knowledge of who I am regardless of the relentless questions and challenges I put myself through. My grin spreads across my face as I arc my first turns in two seasons. Knowing that my body remembers the movements and adjusts so easily to steep terrain as I slalom through fir tree tips reminds me of that woman who is strong and sure and always knows where her next move will be. Watching the fire on a cold winter night while neighbors, friends and family share stories, laughter, and music reminds me of how easy it feels to belong to a community, and of how simple our joys can be. Sledding through the trees by the light of the full moon, tumbling from the sled as dark silhouettes spin above my head shows me again the laughing child who sees potential for celebration and discovery around every bend. Hearing from you, the people that read this blog, makes me realize the worth of the journey I have chosen. I am truly blessed.
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