Parallel settings

There are two ways to deal with the sand. One is to try and clear it away, effectively creating a small but wide hole to accommodate your feet. The other method is to try and smooth the sand into a smooth, flat area while deceiving yourself into thinking you have a solid surface to dance on. Either way, you end up with a combination of mounds and valleys that tip your center of gravity and throw you off balance. Or at least that's how it happens for me.

I've begun my study of Malian dances at a small art center just outside of town. It can take anywhere from 40 min to an hour to get to, depending on traffic. Unlike my Abidjan dance trips, which I was able to segment into interesting portions, there's really nothing interesting about the ride. Unless you count the kaleidoscope of street sights- from donkeys to cows to motorcycles and motorcycle carts, along with pedestrians and people sitting outside their storefronts.

It's a dusty ride and everything appears in hues of sienna. The million motorcycles on the streets of Bamako has resulted in a million and ten moto repair shops, which cover everything in a deep oil black. The most exciting part of the journey is the ride back, the first portion being on a moto. I am not ready to brave the paved streets on a bike, but since the dance center is nestled deep into a side village, taking a moto is really the only way to get back to the main road. From there, I hail a cab and begin the nighttime journey home. It is a mesmerizing spectacle of motorcycle lights weaving in and out of traffic and dark silhouettes flying across the road.

The dance itself is familiar, which is not necessarily an asset I am discovering. My muscle memory is strong and my body is ready to complete a familiar beginning with an anticipated ending. So, not only am I learning a new step, but I must first unlearn the old one. It is interesting to observe how the body works in this way. To feel the conflict between what I know I should do and what my muscles want to do out of habit.

This first month in Mali has left me drained. I've been ill of one sort or another and it shows in my dance. I am heavy and slow. I cannot lift from the floor and I am tired after class. My body is aching. I am hoping to conquer this soon enough, but time is ever the battle. And there's the sand. Eventually it will make me stronger, lighter, faster, but for now it is a battle of it's own.

The space itself is enjoyable. The parcel is filled with interesting rocks, reminiscent of the volcano rocks of Congo in their size and ability to generate an impression. However, the Mali rocks are large and porous, red-black with Swiss cheese type holes creating texture and intrigue. Neighborhood kids come to watch and a collection of random guys (only random in the sense that I don't know who they are or how they are connected to the center.) often float in and out, sitting in chairs near the back wall, not necessarily watching, more likely fiddling on their phones or drinking tea.

It is like a parallel universe to the Tarmac of Kintambo. A theater group practices here, too. And with the kids in and out, it's a lively place. I notice this as I move from country to country. The artists living in parallel worlds. Outdoor studios with tin covered roofs and lights strung across the interior. A space for chairs sits mostly empty until performance time.  Places of entertainment and education for the youth, who come to fulfill their curiosity.

Even the Center Francais, where I ended up one evening to watch a musical group - Kangaba Mopti, which are two towns in Mali, a fitting name as the band took us on a musical tour of languages, styles and regions- even the center Francais seems to function within the law of parallel settings. An intimate theater, featuring big names and up-and-coming artists, with a small pool of integrated dancers and musicians who can be seen hanging around networking or getting ready for their next show. I even ran across someone from the Kinshasa institute. Much like international teachers, the staff of the institute can travel from country to country as positions open up and desire calls for a new experience. And yet, the structure remains.

Intersecting circles. Patterns of existence. I see it again as the founder of Don Sen Folo takes the stage and practices his contemporary dance routine. The moves, I've come to identify as African contemporary dance, are not exactly familiar, not in the repeated sense, but there is a base that is reminiscent of other African dancers I have seen. If I am not careful, it is easy to mistake where I am. Time and place become muddled. Language has once again taken on the musical quality. I recognize words and syllables but meaning escapes me. For a moment, I feel a convergence - Guinee, Congo, Cote d'Ivoire, Mali. Places where artists create, develop and display. Synchronicity. It is beautiful.

This Saturday, I arrived a bit early to repetition. (Class seems like a big word since we are only 2, sometimes 3.) The theater group was preparing for their performance the next day. A group of kids had gathered to sit in their usual place on the rocks. Despite the language barrier, I was able to grasp a sense of the humor (theater crosses barriers, too, hey? exploring concepts of being human) and drama they were portraying. Really delightful. And then the actors dispersed, leaving only one woman on stage. She began storytelling, with the traditional call and response. The children knew exactly when and  how to respond. I felt like I was witnessing a dying tradition. With nothing more than a stage of sand, the storyteller was able to transport me to a village night complete with firelight and excitement.

My taxi driver home that night seemed to agree. He'd traveled a lot (we spoke some Lingala together and reminisced about the liveliness of Kin) and suggested the traditional dances were being lost in Mali. In the north, it is due to extremists prohibiting expressive arts. Even the tradition of dancing for the field workers is no longer allowed. And in the cities, people are moving away from the traditional arts in favor of more Western styles - or abandoning the arts altogether.

Mali is a country that had a strong tourist trade. Such rich history and vibrant culture was an asset. The recent terror attacks and political uncertainty has led to a decline in the tourist industry, forcing many artists and cultural groups to take a few steps backward, to look for "day jobs" and invest their time in alternate methods of revenue.

This story is not unique to Mali, if the details may be. Congo isn't suffering from outside terrorist attacks. Their terror stems from within. The results are similar. And while it could be argued the US is currently battling a terrorist minded president, there's no doubt his fight is an economic war against the arts and culture.

Parallel settings. Similar outcomes. Perhaps there is a parallel universe where the inhabitants have recognized the power of the arts and things are working in the absolute reverse. Instead of studio shells filled with artists struggling to bring their creative efforts to fruition, communities have thriving arts centers that are the focus of evening entertainment and lively gathering places. Ideas and energy are exchanged and creativity is born. The adults serves as masters to apprentice teens while the youngest children look on and absorb. Art is not a secret tradition to be coveted and mourned as it fades into a slow death; it is a public priority and communal celebration of life. In a parallel setting, surely it exists.

It's great to be dancing again- Bamako

Theater group practicing with an audience of children

 

One of these motos will ferry me to the road after class

 Neighboring balcony usually
hosts 1 or 2 viewers from afar

Glass bottom taxi

The roads to school are filled with orange lake-sized puddles. Normally, a taxi ride would be one solution to over-coming this. Large, mud walking boots are another. I haven't yet acquired the knee-high rain gear that are prevalent here, so most mornings I opt for a taxi.

There is a particularly large puddle, stretching from one side of the road to the other, where someone- or several someones- have placed a line of rocks down the center. I've yet to capture a photo of this beautiful bridge, but it's coming.

One afternoon I had arrived at just this spot and was contemplating the journey across. The rocks are sharp and edgy with flat surfaces that shimmer in the sun. The faces are not exactly flat, and the reflecting sunlight suggested a slippery slope. I wasn't really sure I wanted to risk it. The water is a deep, rich red and I could imagine it covering my clothes, my bag, my self.

Luckily on that day, a colleague from school passed before I had to take the first steps. On another morning, however, I was passing through that same puddle in a taxi, fascinated by the shape of the rocks (regretting again my inability to capture their allure with a photo) when I felt a sudden wetness.

Like a virtual reality game gone too far, as I watched the water ebbing and flowing from the movement of the car, I felt a splash of coolness from the seat. I whipped around to inspect the source, and sure enough, I could see clear through to the road. A glass bottom boat with no glass.

Mud bridge between two puddles near our house

Kids these days

Aside from the perils of security- there are the occasional pleasures from students. A few of my conversations in the first weeks of school reminded me what amazing places international schools can be.

I spent my first high school lunch duty roaming the student lounge area trying to make small talk with kids while also giving them privacy. I am so used to roaming and talking in elementary school (where the students still love attention from teachers) that I didn't even think twice about how high school kids would react. For the most part, they humored me, engaging in quick conversation before turning back to their screens.

One group of boys had a few t-shirts in wrapped in plastic. They had an interesting logo and seemed to be a "thing." Of course, I had to ask. "What's up with the t-shirts?" Apparently they were for sale- did I want one? "Not quite yet, " I responded," but what if I did? How do you get one?" Naturally they directed me to their website, which they'd designed and created to market their clothing line Forward. Naturally.

But it's not just in high school where they have grand ambitions. Part of my job has me helping out in the 4/5th grade during writing. As I chatted with one student about his story, we got on the topic of his future goals. "Well, I'm going to be president." No doubt there. "Of what?" I had to ask, thinking perhaps he wanted to run his own company. I clearly underestimated him.

"I haven't decided yet. America or Mali. It's a tough decision." He assured me he was qualified for either position, having been born in the US and his parents are also Malian. He figured he had a few years to decide which country he would be president of- first.

Dream big.

Security

Security takes up a big percentage of moving unknowns.  Assessing it, understanding it, trying to get your finger on the pulse of it. Once you figure out where you live, you need to figure out how safe it is. Which can be incredibly difficult when you don't speak the language.

There are several layers to understanding security. It begins with the most personal, the security guards. As an ex-pat hosted by an organization, I am once again under the protection of school provided security. The biggest difference for me this time is that I am no longer living on a glorious spread of jungle rain forest with 30 other houses and an entire school campus. Now I just live in an apartment with one other flat upstairs. It means the security guards are much closer. Outside my kitchen window closer.

I feel watched, rather than protected. There are strange men wandering the periphery of the house at all hours. It's been almost a month and I can at least say they are friendly, but still, I don't know anything about them. Except they are there. Day and night. If I want to leave at any time, it will require disturbing them so I can get out the door. And when I come "home" I must knock, like a visitor. It feels more like their house than mine and I wonder how much time is required to tip the balance. The perpetual guest syndrome.

I don't really understand what kind of security they are providing. They are both on the elderly edge of life, or so it appears.  I admit to thinking them somewhat frail. Or, in the face of terrorists, they would be frail. But then, wouldn't we all?

They are not armed, thankfully. But I am left to wonder how they have prepared and what for. It must be maddening to try and keep a watchful eye day and night- it merges too neatly into routine living.

I see it all around the half built neighborhood we live in. "Security" which really means people living in garages and sitting out front of massive houses, or house shells. They play games on their phones, chat with a neighboring security guard if they are so lucky to have a neighbor, and alternate between sitting inside the border walls alone and catching the few sights of evening foot traffic or goat herders outside.

Our neighborhood doesn't feel insecure or dangerous. But it doesn't necessarily feel safe either. It feels empty and sterile. I guess we have neighbors, but I can't imagine ever meeting them. Friendly is not the first word I would use to describe the few people I've passed in strolls around the neighborhood. The Malians aren't quick to greet me but offer quiet stares that I can't quite read.

In one brusque incident, two men were walking-clearly home dwellers and not home protectors- who overheard my English conversation with a friend. One of the men came up and introduced himself, speaking English and happy to recount his connection to the US. He extended his hand to my (male) friend and completely ignored me. No acknowledgement nod, no quick smile, nothing. I did not exist. Welcome to the neighborhood.

Bamako has that "it's a man's country" feel which isn't exactly comforting for a woman.  Or maybe it's just me. I've been wondering where the sunny, warm Malians are all hiding out and what of the "friendly village atmosphere" everyone talked about. So many people are really enchanted with Bamako, I wonder what I am missing.

Of course, recent attacks around the city have left something of a desolate air (combined with the fact that apparently many restaurants close for vacation during the July-August months.) But comments from business owners are telling. One restaurant/art gallery parent told me that, although the place is well known, even on the international circuit, they've stopped doing openings. "A hundred or more people would be showing up," she said. "So I had to stop that. Now, it's just people coming and going in small groups. Word gets around from friend to friend. Kind of underground."

Most popular gathering places have made security changes. There are plenty of metal detecting wands and new double door entrances- like the bank. I don't really understand how this helps (I get it in the context of a bank-bank robber, but I don't get it in the context of restaurant-terrorist bomber.) You go in the first door which is shut behind you, leaving you enclosed in a small holding space. The second door is then opened and you enter the restaurant or hotel area. Some establishments have tried to add a bit of humor to lighten the mood (cool graffiti guys or little notes on the walls,) but it's a stark reminder of the reality. A night out could quickly turn from festive to fearful.

A few US Embassy representatives came to school to give us an update on the security situation. It was so fascinating I actually took notes. They were very candid, which was a shocking change from my last post, where all the official information from our school sounded vague and incoherent. Incorrect at times, even.

Not so Bamako. The US Embassy reps were straight up real. They told grisly stories of a policeman being chased and set on fire. They explained the phrase  "Article 320" referring to the cost of a liter of gas (300fcfa) and some matches (20fcfa.) People are frustrated. Things get out of control.

They talked about ways to stay in the loop-social media being a prominent source for on the minute info. Whatsapp- suggested for "happy hour groups, attacks, you know, the important things." The security situation was described here as "a dynamic security environment." Things are liable to change any second. There's really no way to predict it and so the best thing to do is be proactive.

Don't go to places with soft security. One new restaurant was noted as having a beautiful glass entrance way- all windows and doors. The only visible security is a guy with beefy arms and tight pants. Better to stick to places that are "hard security targets" with double doors and armed guards.

One of the guys shared his survival pack with us. Things to have on hand at all times. A "Plan of Peril." He related how some of the people at the recent attack in Kangaba (a place students took a field trip to just a week or so before the incident) ran into the bush to hide. Things that came in handy: one of those portable batteries (almost bought one in Paris, but it felt like an impulse buy- now I know it would have been a safety buy.) Nothing more devastating and potentially life threatening than a low-batt signal when trying to call friends to arrange a swift pick up at an alternate rendezvous site.

Other things like a flashlight (for signaling here-I-am help when out in the middle of nowhere and the choppers are searching for you) and a warm, water proof poncho are sort of obviously helpful but not something we generally carry for a night out on the town. Money, of course, in several places, not all grouped together in one spot. And a small first aid assortment. Not just for you, but for others you might find in the field. Mosquito spray too. You might not really understand how fierce mosquitoes can be until you've had to spend an entire night battling them in some swampy undergrowth.

Their frank discussion about the state of things (Malians getting impatient with the French, frustrated with lack of progress on the terrorist front, terrorist possibilities anywhere, anytime- cannot be predicted and cannot be avoided so just always use common sense and proactive awareness skills) came in the first week of getting-to-know-you teacher back to school. It was not entirely new to me, but I was imagining the shock of my colleague who is experiencing his first trip to Africa.

Honestly, I imagine there was a bit of shock from even some of the hardened Africa lovers in the room- and the not so hardened. The most difficult thing about the terrorist attacks is that there is no "why." You cannot protect yourself by not being_____ because it's the very essence of being you that is under attack. You are not them and that is all that matters. It is random and harsh and it cannot be undone.

I have heard of some teachers who just choose not to go out. Ever. No grocery shopping, no pizza lunches, nothing. Inside, all the time. It's a difficult way to live- enshrouded in fear.  But it's real. The topic has already come up in my performance arts class. One group of students put together a powerful piece they imagined would happen at a park or similar public place. One student was sitting in the middle with a mask and 4 others made a circle around him. Some of them were also wearing African masks. Two other students patrolled the area with gun-like props, holding signs saying, "We're not safe," and "Stop terrorism."

I imagined seeing this in a park, as I was strolling with Mbalia, enjoying a sunny care-free day. Yes, it would stop me. I would consider. I would be affected. Security. It's always an issue in Bamako, even when it's not.