stories, from africa: 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.