Where artists work

We've taken to organizing field trips, a colleague and I, to see places where artists work around Bamako. The Conservatoire  was an interesting study in architecture. The school suffers a bit from a bad reputation around town, but the place itself is quite grand. We were surprised to see students on the grounds, though many less than could be accommodated.

A visiting couple from France were on hand to offer a workshop, which likely led to the ambiance in the visual art department. Students filled one of the well lit rooms, their drawings taped to the wall and others spilled out into the hallway, lining the corridor as they surveyed their work. The project theme was something about a city on the head. Students had imagined various hats depicting their ideas of a city. Pencil drawings were taped above current images being completed in color pastels. The final stage of the project involves turning these drawings into 3D sculptures that can actually be worn.

While it was clear this was student work, some were quite intriguing. Ideas varied from futuristic cities with cubist design to traditional Malian village scenes with a twist. One of my favorites showed a veiled desert inhabitant with a hat of elongated buildings in the Djenne mosque style.

The French teacher struck up a conversation with us about exhibit space. It seemed she had done this workshop in previous years and was once again looking for the perfect spot to showcase the final works. After the rest of our tour, I reflected on this request as somewhat curious.

The Conservatoire also includes a spacious performance building with stage and lights- surely enough room to host a beautiful exhibit of student work. There is a restaurant on campus and plenty of outdoor space to create a cafe like atmosphere. I wondered why the campus itself wouldn't be the perfect showcase choice.

Part of it may be due to the secluded location. In order to access the Conservatoire, you must pass just outside of town, up a winding hill and down a long, albeit marvelously paved, road. But as a strategy for increasing the reputation of the school and garnering public interest, I would think they would be doing everything they could to have events and highlight the place.

We must have lingered a bit too long, talking and eyeing the student work because we lost our guide here. But we were happy enough to wander around the rest of the campus peeking into doorways and generally intruding on anyone we found working. There was a department for music and some students could be heard practicing jazz or classical piano. The dance building hosted room after room of empty studios. Several students were in the main rehearsal space, accompanied by a few djembe drummers. It was all very tame and subdued. The space was built to accommodate a greater number of students and so it appeared empty despite the activities going on.

Peering out of one of the upstairs studio windows gave us a view of a group of students clustered in an outdoor gazebo, possibly painting. An administrator or two were tucked away in offices and a group of men sat under a tree in deep discussion.  A teacher preparing his lessons was discovered in a drawing room filled with easels and incredible light.

The potential seemed apparent, though the reality still has a bit of catching up to do.

Our second trip to visit Abdoul, an artist and theater designer, was in stark contrast to the large buildings and open campus of the Conservatoire. Like many artists, Abdoul works out of his house, though he also mentioned a much larger space just outside the city. His neighborhood was lively and filled with children in the streets and teens huddled together outside their houses, sitting in chairs or hanging around motorcycles.

His studio was intimate, a collage of covered and open outdoor space, filled with canvases, sculptures and random theater props all in various stages of completion. There were power sanders- for making organic pigments- his current passion. And of course, the stones and bricks ready to be sanded down into painting material. There were also industrial sized buckets of acrylic paint used to bring form and light to the burlap backdrops. The technical section included computers and tablets,  and wires of all sorts. He showed us various film clips, both finished and in progress, both financed and on-his own.

He is currently working on a Christian theme, a client request. But he has become enthralled by the use of gold leaf paper and monochrome palettes and imagines taking the theme further to a juxtaposition of religious ideology.

Abdoul talked about the elements of creating his art- the late night hours when the neighborhood is quiet, the effect of light to change a work completely. He even demonstrated for us using several of the stage lights he had installed along a ceiling support. A few were also laying around the ground in easy reach.

It was a place of creativity and action. A place of conversation, with low chairs,  elaborately carved thrones and abstract figures that doubled as possible seating. We were there for hours listening to a summary of his work, his artistic philosophy and his current projects.

It is a constant fascination of mine to learn how these artists become successful. Often a chance meeting leads to one connection or another that leads to a project. Other times an embassy will be in direct contact, requesting specific work, or a gallery owner will stop by with an idea in mind, only to discover new dimensions that were unknown before. And viola, a new project is born.

Abdoul spent several years traveling and working with some of the greats in filmmaking and art. He is accomplished and successful and feels better staying home now. He creates because he must and he is dedicated to seeing through some of his own ideas for telling the history of Mali through fiction films that allow him to use his talents for costume design and setting.

It's the struggle of artists everywhere. Finding the balance between making art of your own creation and providing others with their desire. Financing is always necessary which often means compromise.

We seemed to have come full circle- visiting an artist at this stage of his career. It was interesting to compare to our earlier visit to designer Chiek Diallo, another long time, successful artist and to remember the young students at the Conservatoire, to imagine  how one might evolve in their own artistic journey to this point of confidence and conviction.

No comment- stories of Malian tradition

I am getting farther and farther away from things I know and understand. This is supposed to be a good exercise in growth and personal reflection. Instead it's become something of a circular road. Drissa and I have been working on a painting series for many months now. It began as a tribute and recording of traditional dance- the why, the how, the when. Our series of paintings is meant to be transformed into children's books that detail the history of traditional dances.

But as the first project nears an end, we have travelled far from things I find familiar. Drissa must start the skeleton outline of each of these compositions, as I can't even begin to imagine the scenery. I am tasked with writing the story to accompany our paintings. A children's story. Somehow, I must find the child words to talk about the tradition of jabbi- painting henna on the hands in a certain color before the wedding- this color to be revealed at the big dance ceremony- this color to signify if the woman was 'innocent' before marriage or.....not. Who would say they weren't? I wonder.

But Drissa assures me that the women know if they start their marriage with dishonesty, it will bring bad luck. I suspect he doesn't really have the answers to my questions, and if I am going to be able to write the book, I will need to find a woman to pose my many questions to.

We are on the last of the images. Currently we are working on the seclusion. A period of 3-5 days when the woman must stay in the house of her husband. She can receive visitors, but she can't go out.

As Drissa fills in the details, my questions mount. How am I ever going to turn this into 'kid-friendly?" He tells me normally the woman wears a cloth but not much else. I suspect this is so she will be "ready" for her husband, at any moment. He also talks about the displaying of the sheets- the blood stained cloth that is hung outside the hut to prove her innocence to everyone in the village. Except he explains it as a cause of celebration- she is passing from a young girl to a woman.

I am of two minds here, as so much of tradition inspires. It is good to celebrate passages of age and life stages, something I believe America has lost. I believe this lost rite of passage has become the cause of much confusion and disrespect in youth. But the public airing of your most intimate life? I am not sure I can get behind that one.

Isn't it really a way to control women and keep a firm male dominance in place? I think it will be better to leave this part out- of the painting and the story. Instead, we have a woman sitting on her mat, wrapped in white cloth sharing oranges with someone who has come to offer gifts.

"She is like a queen," Drissa insists. "She sits and doesn't do anything but wait patiently while others serve her." I don't see it quite that way. Prisoner is what comes to my Western mind. Or maybe it is my female mind. I wonder how Malian women view this tradition.

He agrees that it is something that happens rarely now. He laughs a bit, saying young girls don't always wait for their husband. But I know that, too, is a perspective he can't really offer with truth. Young girls these days are coerced by their school professors and strangled by the poverty that faces them. They often have little choice, and the choices they do make, don't really belong to them.

Last year his own sister was married off- at the tender age of 18. Perhaps even a bit old by Malian standards. The brothers protested, but I imagine it was a feeble attempt to get their parents to permit their sister to continue her education. There isn't much of a promising life at the end of that road.

Schools in Mali still need a lot of positive PR. The university system is even worse, spending more time closed than open. Students, like Issa, Drissa's younger brother, may find their names on two lists at the end of exams. If they pay a little something, they can get their name off the failing list and permanently inscribed on the passing list. And if they don't...? They take the course again, or drop out altogether.

Isssa has chosen to continue his studies, but he concentrates on painting for a future. They find a lot of mural work for restaurants and embassies, and Issa has secured a few small jobs painting ads on the outside of barbershops and groceries.

As for our painting series, we hope to be finished by February. The paintings really are beautiful and likely to garner much admiration- that Western kind that ogles over day to day scenes of ordinary life, finding a charm on the surface that may not exist in reality.

If we do a second set, I would like to focus more on the dance and the movements. A kind of abstract expression of the beauty of human form and capability. The dances are beautiful, and powerful. There is a transformative effect when one takes up the traditional movements- and it complicates the real life details.

I am getting better at living in two minds, accepting conflicting details of beauty and oppression. Because sometimes, life is just that way. I think it might help to look at it as history. Transcribing the past traditions. But it is a challenge to write about something that I disagree with. I admit the pages sound stilted and factual. I find it difficult to infuse passion and magic. I am not sure if the story is beautiful, or if it is even meant to be beautiful. Maybe it is just meant to be history. Without judgement or comment or personal interpretation. Maybe this is what I need to remember to transform this ritual into a child's book - I am merely recording lessons of their history, their culture and their country. Perhaps they will view it as a record of their progress. One day.

Moving- with Malian Men

We've recently moved- just down the street. Actually, through the roundabout, down the road, to the left near the Aiche building and Here Construction (heray- as in the Bamanakan for happy and peaceful, only I can't get those special e's on the computer- and they aren't on the business sign either, but I am suspecting it's meant to be 'heray' and not Here.) After that it's the third right.

I had to add all that in because I am (still, forever) annoyed by the inability of the masses to give directions. We've just moved, basically down the street, and yes, I can give you directions.

Moving down the street may not sound like much of a difficulty. It might even sound better when you consider that the school took care of mostly everything. While I was at work one day, they showed up with a truck, loaded everything and carted it off to the new place. There were some odds and ends left for me, some plants and a bike and my fixtures from the studio, but the heavy lifting was done.

Sort of. It sounds good until you really try to imagine the details. A bunch of strangers move all of your stuff to a new place while you are not there. They put everything everywhere. And honestly, walking in to see all the mishmash furniture stacked in one spot does not encourage a sense of hope and renewal. There is nothing worse than taking a bunch of paint peeling dressers, falling apart end tables and faded-just-around-the-arms sofas and putting them side by side. I was overwhelmed with the shabbiness. Could this really be my life after 44 years? A collection of worn out furniture that doesn't even belong to me?

The only thing to do was separate the criminals immediately. I set about moving heavy bookcases and pushing a 2 piece china cabinet across the floor. The china cabinet was really my crowning glory- having devised a way to remove the heavy upper piece by lowering it first onto a table and then onto a set of three chairs. The chairs straddled the frame of the sliding glass doors, which the hutch had to get up and over. I somehow managed to heave the upper component back onto its base, all without dropping it to the floor and smashing the glass panels. It was a huge, though private, moment of satisfaction.

 Moving with Malian men can seem pleasant at first. They are chivalrous and really want to help. They won't let you carry anything. The first time, it is fine. So surprising you have nothing to do but go with it. Every time after that is annoying. It's hard to get mad at people who are helping you. But when faced with the ridiculous- and completely inefficient- situation of standing there watching while everyone else hauls goods- it's infuriating. I can carry a small potted plant. I can carry a a medium box. I can carry a lamp. I can move a china cabinet. Leave me alone.

It becomes insulting, is what happens. And with the perceived insult comes anger. But when my car dies on the side of a dusty Bamako road, I am happy to call someone to come and change my tire. While I wait, watching. Doing nothing. So much for being angry about that Malian chivalry.

In the circle of artists

I think it was Jimmy Fallon and Jerry Seinfeld, in an episode of Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee, who were discussing hanging out with other comedians. I understood immediately what they meant, and I was kind of relieved to see my neurosis wasn't really neurosis after all, just human nature.

Because they weren't talking about just hanging out with comedians, they were talking about only hanging out with comedians. Fallon says something along the lines of really only enjoying things if he is with other comedians. There is a common habit of using humor to see the world, in such a way that only other comedians really get it.

I feel this way about artists. I prefer hanging out with other artists, only. If artists aren't going to be there, I'm not really interested. There is a certain perspective creative types bring to the world that is soothing and intriguing and comforting. I just don't have as much fun if there aren't other artists around. I don't feel as connected to what's happening unless I can exchange a glance and smile with a fellow artist that says, "Did you see that? You saw that, right?" And of course they did. They saw it, they heard it, they imagined the rest of it in a way that only artists do. 

In terms of African dance and music, I've had the privilege and honor of mostly being in the inner circle. Those of us who are obsessed and passionate about traditional African music spend a lot of time with other artists. We go to events in the circle of artists, which allows for an inside view of how things happen. How dances get choreographed and songs get composed. How performances get put together. How weddings and birthdays and other celebrations get infused with spirit and revelry. Any event without music and dancing isn't really complete. 

It is just in these last few months that I've come to understand there is an entirely different view of art and artists. I should have known. I did know, but not in a truly aware way of knowing. So many artists have a similar story- either they are from a long line of artists, or they're not. And if they're not, it's likely they've suffered some serious repercussions for choosing a life of creativity. From physical abuse to being thrown out and disowned, families who are not artist families do not want to "lose" their children to this path. 

Here in Mali, I hear a lot about families who do not want their children to experience drumming or dancing or anything to do with traditional arts. They don't want their children hanging around those people. Others don't mind the drums, but draw a line at the balafon or kora. These are reserved for griot families- the generations tasked with keeping stories. Music and dance are really just about storytelling and keeping history. 

There is no doubt people think these things are important- that's not really the issue. Kings and queens and chiefs of villages need these griots to sing their praises and make sure everyone else realizes their wisdom and importance.  But after that, keep your distance. It becomes something of a caste situation. 

It all translates into a complex relationship between the praiser and the one who is praised. There is power in being the composer of history. It's not so different from Chimamanda Adichie's view in The Danger of a Single Story. Those who write the stories hold the power. And in the case of musical presentation, there is the potential for another kind of power. Music is compelling and hypnotic; music makers are slightly magical. Attractive, mysterious, captivating. Potentially more captivating than the ruler himself. This is where the danger lies. Jealousy and mistrust brew. 

I'm told this is a West African thing, though I hadn't noticed it so much in neighboring countries.  I've been too busy being in awe- surrounded by artists and trying to learn as much as possible- to stop and consider someone might think there is another way to be. That this way should be separate and the music makers kept apart. Or maybe I just enjoy being kept apart. The caste system in this case doesn't really define higher or lower, but just separate.  

I can't imagine any other way to experience things except through art. Through the creative eye. With rhythms of the drums pulsing through you, matching your heartbeat, taking you back to the original birth, the first energy source that connects us all. Maybe that is the scary thing: facing our human connection, facing an intangible energy that is profound and un-knowable. The inner view.  It truly is magical, and life would hardly be bearable without it.

*UPDATE* Here's an article discussing exactly what I was talking about. It's funny how that comes about.

Happy Holidays- undercover

We made it to the ever longed for and much appreciated holiday break. Here's a standard email from the US embassy wishing us a joyous, albeit quiet, season- "keep it down over there."

Location: Bamako

During the holiday season security measures in Mali remain heightened due to ongoing threats posed by transnational terrorist organizations and individuals inspired by extremist ideology throughout Africa. Extremists continue to focus on locations such as shopping centers, airports, hotels, clubs, restaurants, places of worship, transportation hubs, street markets, and other public venues frequented by Westerners. Please exercise particular caution during the holiday season and at holiday events.

Actions to Take: Exercise additional vigilance throughout the holiday season. Review your personal security plans. Be aware of your surroundings. Use caution when driving at night and avoid walking after dark. Monitor local media for updates. Exercise caution if unexpectedly in the vicinity of large gatherings or protests. Keep a low profile.

The curdling of milk

In an effort to have more adventure, Mbalia and I accepted (or weaseled our way into) an invitation to visit a farm just outside the city center. Farms are the new African chic retirement system. I remember several of the teachers in Abidjan were busy investing in farms and visiting them on the weekends to try and get something going. Its all the rage in Bamako as well.

Except the farm we visited was not your average past time. Someone had invested a considerable sum of money to start up a cheese and yogurt farm. Apparently it is a partnership between the Dutch woman, who has had 30 plus years making cheese in France, and the Malian who owns the land and purchased the machines and is paying a small salary until the business takes off.  I am fascinated by the lives people lead. There is always a story in Africa.

The farm had freshly painted yellow walls- no rules about red barns and white fences here. One building inside was clearly new, also fresh yellow paint and a double roof system which works to keep out dust. Other small buildings on the land included rooms for security and a series of toilets and washrooms.

After a quick tour of the cheese making stations, the kids found their way outside and quickly discovered some chickens. The cows were off grazing somewhere. Our host had prepared for our visit by completing many of her tasks the day before, which freed her up to take us on a little hike to a neighboring animal farm. We got a glimpse of ostrich- alarmingly tall and strong- securely enclosed, though apparently they used to run free within walls but kept escaping. I am thinking one thing I would not want to run into in the wild is a free roaming ostrich. Their reputation has never really lived up to the reality of their height and impressive strength.

We went to visit cows, mostly a group of newborn calves which Mbalia was happy to pet. And we peered into endless rooms of baby chicks or other poultry. The kids were impressed by the large numbers written on little chalkboards hanging above the door. Little Mohamed felt certain the numbers couldn't be right ("How could they know?!") and was determined to count them himself, a task that quickly proved beyond his first grade abilities. Little birds move a lot, especially when frightened by strangers hovering near doorways.

The first time we peeked in, the entire mass of furry feathered babies went scurrying in one direction. "They're gathering," he shouted, except in French it was more like, "Ils fait l'assembly" which it made it seem like they were off to have a meeting about the perceived invasion. There is nothing like children to make an ordinary visit to a farm seem like a wondrous thing.

After our return to the cheese farm, the kids fought with sticks and planted dried hibiscus branches, which they watered with earnest. Little Mohamed decided to take one home and decorate it for his Christmas tree. Mbalia left hers deeply planted and well watered in the sand so it would "grow and grow."

We had a treat of yogurt and I bought a round of cheese, which turned out to be very tasty. It was a nice day away from the bustle and dust of the city. Even though Malian bush just seems dry and harsh to me, the air quality did feel different. A slight breeze and not so much pollution from traffic.

The most impressive part of the day was the path we followed to arrive. While there were no real landmarks, our host did an amazing job of giving us directions. We did not get lost, although we did have to call her several times to get a repeat of crucial details- was it left or right at the mango tree that's been cut? It was a long story to get, "watch for the building with a blue roof, turn right at the Coca Cola-Bavaria stand, take a left at the mango that's been cut, go over a small bridge, every time there's a fork, take a left, look for an aluminum shed, etc, etc." My kind of directions. I couldn't help but marvel at the way she was able to guide us through what might be to some an unremarkable bush, and yet there were people in the city who couldn't give me directions to their home- even with stores and landmarks and street corners to count- they could do no more than say, "I live parallel to the river," which is actually a lot of people, or "It's behind Shopreate." Ok........that covers a good 50 or 100 or a million houses. Do I just go door knocking?

It's a fading art, this giving of directions, this knowing where we are and noticing where we go each day. We paid special attention to the unremarkable bush because we also knew we'd have to get back. We observed a concrete store with an old man sitting out front and wondered if he would still be there on the return (he was, and had been joined by his family who were doing each other's hair and playing in the little mounds of grass and just taking in the evening air.) We noticed a large water tank enclosed by an iron holder that was abstract enough to resemble a sculpture of some sort. This signaled a left on the way back, and it turned out to be a helpful sign.

Our trip to the farm was that level of excitement and interest that still captures the little ones but may have only left Nabih hot and bored. I enjoyed just being out of the city and resolved to find more ways to do so. Bamako is not growing on me really, and the dry vegetation did not make things more appealing. But it was interesting to imagine someone else's life for a minute, timing the curdling of milk in just the right fashion to make a tasty round of cheese or tangy pot of yogurt. She drives out there each day, about an hour for her, and I imagine the mental transition she makes going from city lights to empty farm country.

A group of men, neighbors, it seemed, or maybe fellow farm-retirement investors, passed by to purchase some yogurt. It was a fun surprise, out in the middle of nowhere, to have a sleek, white SUV pull up filled with 5 men all interested in yogurt or small talk.

We left as dusk set in. I couldn't imagine the darkness of the bush or trying to navigate the roads that way, not for the first time back. But I could imagine the sky and I wondered if it would be magical here at night. It feels like so long since I've seen stars.

Red roads of the bush country

Shiny new cheese making equipment

Moulding station

Cheese and yogurt ready for delivery

One of the out buildings

Hiking to a neighboring animal farm

Random half building amidst the dry bush

Ostrich- taller than me and that's muscle
under those feathers, not fat

Petting the calves

Newborn

Peering in at the babies

Not sure who counted, or how they know, but 639 babies here

Watering the dried hibiscus branch

The farm entrance red door and double roof

Happiness 

But there were a few moments, naturally

Little round of cheese- very tasty

Ballet du Wassoulou

I had the immense pleasure of seeing the Ballet du Wassoulou perform at the Institute Francais several weeks ago. There were a few realizations I came to after reflecting on their powerful presentation.

It was actually the second time I'd seen a group of dancers present a show by introducing themselves  as "not dancers." The first time the masked dancers were from the Dogon area of Mopti and I was woefully disappointed and underwhelmed, although the rest of the audience was delighted.

At the time, I chalked it up to having standards set too high by the many professional companies I have seen and worked with. What I didn't realize then I became fully aware of during the Wassoulou performance.

While several of the artists clearly had perfected their moves through rehearsal and trainings, many of them were just repeating what they do naturally. The dances and rhythms we were witnessing were being performed as they were actually used in the village. I'd often thought just coming to Africa was enough to understand the roots of the dances, but what I realized in that moment was that this was so much closer.

These farmers were just doing what they know. They were offering the very origin of the dances in their most authentic form. The only way to get closer would be for me to go to the fields themselves.

Captivating musician- farmers

I was enchanted. They were good; they were skillful; they were real. When the masked dancers came out, everything shifted to an ever deeper level. Two different animal dances were presented- the monkeys and the buffalo. Both had the ability to capture and captivate the viewer, transporting us beyond the walls of the theater and into the otherworldly realm of spirits and superstition.

It had been awhile since I'd seen a masked dance and I'd forgotten just how powerful it is. It doesn't take long before the dancers are transformed, actually becoming the animal spirits. It is a radical and dramatic shift. Watching a masked animal dance is one sure way of reliving the magic of childhood and the wonderment of belief in the fantastical.

Mystical buffalo dancers

The ability to create such life-like movements that allow the viewer to succumb to the visual suggestion before them, this ability to reflect the natural movements of animals in their environment can only come from actually viewing them in their environment. The closeness between man and the animal, the idea that they share living space and interact daily, it all became obviously apparent. With this realization came the contrary observation that we who are so enthralled, we the majority of the audience, live our lives at a distance, in ignorance of and unfamiliar with the organisms and beings with whom we share our world. We have removed ourselves from so much of what we used to be integrated with. We've become separate and alone.

It all came flooding through me at once- the raw authentic origin of the dance, the insight and knowledge of the artists, the losses brought about through modernity and development- and the real treasure that I was witnessing. I was stunned.

The three Malian women who singing only added to the sense of majesty. Their voices were of that soothing Sahel quality, the seductive longing for a romantic desert I am not convinced really exists. But I was lulled and lured and captivated by their voices. For one night, I allowed myself to give in to the haunting hymns of the sirens.  For one night, Bamako was winning me over.

I wish I'd captured more- elegant and masterful. 

A stunning duo

The time I did stop

About a month ago, I started carrying shoes in the car. I bought a bunch of the plastic white sandals common in West Africa and keep them in my car- in case. This is the kind of healing I can do. I drive with my eyes on the talibe feet. I can happily say that a good many of them of have shoes. Were I still in Kinshasa, my shoe bag would have emptied within the hour. 

The first boy I passed here in Bamako was sleeping in a driveway. I was a little shy about giving the shoes and the whole scene turned rather comical. I drove by, turned around, and finally stopped the car just down the street from him. I wished I'd had some food to offer. The ability to sleep on concrete so near to a busy roadway is something I will never understand. Why not find a piece of cool shade under a tree? Or a private place removed from danger? Or maybe that's where danger lies? In the private, hidden places.

I can only think of the exhaustion that must be present for this kind of public sleeping and food seemed a much better offer than shoes. As he lifted his head, I saw why his feet were bare. Of course you cannot sleep with your shoes on, not if you want to keep them. I drove away then, thinking it would be better to stock up on bread or fruit or cookies even. 

I didn't stop for the next two barefooted boys I saw. Either traffic made it inconvenient or something inside held me back. It's not easy to give. It needs to be sincere, and genuine and done in a matter of fact this-is-happening-because-we're-humans way. A space needs to be created.

The fourth boy I saw was walking with friends. They turned down the same road I intended to turn down. There were four or five of them altogether and I hesitated- again, no food to give. What did I have for the others? Only one had bare feet. Was this going to create a problem?

The bag of shoes had been mocking me, all these weeks in my car. I pulled over next to the boys. They walked up and I opened the door. "Where are your shoes?" I asked. None of them really appeared to understand me, but the oldest one came closer, peered into the car and figured it out. I gave over one shoe and indicated the boy should try it on. When it seemed likely to fit, I passed the other one along.

The boys walked off together. One of them waved and smiled at me as I drove away. He seemed genuinely happy that his friend had new shoes. I was really glad there wasn't a fight or a request for something more. I guess I should really get some food. It's always back to basics. 

"When your stomach is hungry, your feet don't feel the rocks." I am sure that could easily be a proverb from somewhere. There are no solutions, no quick fixes. I am still trying to figure out the who and how behind community emergency systems.  

I didn't save a life, but at least this time I did stop.

Who we become

A few nights ago I dreamed of love. We were singing together and this man had a soul touching voice. It was a sure love, a new love and so comfortable. I didn’t want to leave that dream. The real world is a lonely place. I can’t seem to find my way here. And when I am driving through the city, looking at the thousands of people I don’t know, realizing in cities and towns across the world there are hundreds of millions of people- so many of us, how is it possible for any one of us to be so alone?

It is often that my perspective zooms out to such a scale that I see only humans, and we are horrible to each other. It is as if we are not of the same species. We do not see how we are related. We do not care for each other or tend to our sick or frail. We are a sorry lot, us humans, lost in searching and fighting for things that are inconsequential. We can’t even see it.

Yesterday I passed another person on the street- I am not sure who he was- a forgotten? A throwaway? I can’t even be certain of the situation. As I drove past I saw a man on a motorcycle looking down at him and shaking his head and then driving away. I don’t know if the motorcycle had hit him, or narrowly missed or just stopped to see if help could be offered. It wasn’t clear in those few quick seconds. 

I saw a woman walking by. She looked, kept walking and looked back again. She had a baby on her back and a large bowl of bananas on her head. She was carrying a small table or crate in her hand. None of us seemed to know what to do. Myself- I drove by. I looked, I wondered, I panicked in a way. Yes, it was panic because I did not stop. A steady hand would have stopped and offered help. The street was oddly empty. Usually there are a bunch of sellers on this stretch of road. It is one of the very few places where the street sellers persist. But in this moment, I drove to the corner, made the turn and there was nothing. No one.

I hate that I do this. Drive by. The man had been lying on his stomach, his head oddly facing the ground. He appeared to be having a seizure, his body convulsing in some way. His legs were jerking and his torso rose off the ground. Everything about the movements were unnatural and wrong. He was alone. I did not stop. What would I have done?

My most recent medical training was in CPR- what to do if someone is not breathing- not how to handle convulsions. I am still never really clear on what to do with trauma. It’s not my strong point. I am very, very squeamish and afraid to see blood or bone and organs exposed. I think I am most afraid of being out of control. I cannot fix those things.

In Africa, the situation becomes even more complex because there is no 911. And even if they do purport to have an emergency number (112 or something similar) it will take a long time for anyone to show up. Further complications include being foreign, being white and not knowing exactly what happened. These all sound like excuses, and they are. They are the reasons that prevent me from stopping. Being foreign means that I have a greater chance of somehow becoming implicated or blamed for the incident. Being white suggests I will pay for everything and not knowing exactly what happened means I can’t offer a defense.

They are all good and valid excuses, but none of them make me feel better about myself. It’s not the person I want to be- the person that sees a need and just keeps driving.  I am coming to realize that medical issues are not my area of strength. I am really not equipped to offer much in the case of broken and bleeding bodies. It’s hard to accept this. Sometimes I feel like the only worthwhile thing is to be a medical healer. We do it to each other, this breaking of bodies. War and fighting and anger. We ruin lives, we starve each other, we create situations of horror that don't have to exist. In these times, the immediate need is physical. Nothing else matters when you're a life on the edge. 

But there are other types of healing. And some of these other areas are where I feel more capable. As a healer, however, it is shocking to drive by someone in need and feel unable to assist. It is an overwhelming sense of dread and powerlessness that cuts down to the core and plants a little seed. It stays there long into the night and the day and resurfaces every so often to remind you of who you were in that moment. And who you really are. Not a healer after all, but just someone who drove by.

I passed the area again later in the day and he was gone. Someone had stepped in. Either to offer help or to clear the body. I can feel positive about that- not like the child in the road, whose body remained despite a busy street and plenty of onlookers.

It is situations like these that make me wonder if maybe I am not cut out for African living anymore. Maybe I am full up. When you are constantly facing hardships and battling inequality- facing simple problems that suddenly become insurmountable, it’s not easy to like who you become.