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.
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