Mostly, Africa is home. And I do mean that in the broad sense of the continent. While the country may change, my ears and eyes bring in information through an African context. I am not hearing the same anymore. When I talk to my colleagues, I am often filtering though layers - and sometimes tuning out altogether- because the basis from which I try to relate has shifted completely. Often I simply do not arrive. We are no longer the same, those ex-patriots and I. Somewhere along the way I moved across boundaries and became less of an ex-pat and more of an immigrant. (The buzz around those terms is an ongoing debate and I"m not sure what I agree with or where I fall, but you can read about it here, here and here.)
It's something I have reflected on since moving to Africa- and possibly having to face the choice of fleeing in the name of conflict (there was this post in 2009.) In my current set-up, there's no question. We are here. Fleeing is not an option and there is no agency who can or will help us.
But I am good with that. We don't want to flee (or so I like to think. At least one of us Soumahs would probably jump at the chance to get out of here and I am trying to come to terms with that so if the opportunity presents itself, I will be lovingly supportive and not tearfully distraught.)
Every so often though, in the name of this blog and unknown future written representations- I try to see again through my outsider eyes. I try to get back that magic that Africa held when she was slightly unknown but ever enchanting. The past few weeks, as I have rounded the corner of my small dirt street and made my way home in the dark evening night, I am greeted with a sight that is surely "other," though for us it now just is.
You can almost tell time by it and more than once the boys have questioned why I don't join in- which brings a small smile to my face.
The house across the street (street feels like a big word for the small dirt path that separates us) is home to babies. I've been half-heartedly trying to count them- or at least be aware of how many there actually are- but when one of my observations noted another pregnant women I decided to just give up. There are a lot. 3 or 4. I heard the newborn baby cries and I see the mamas outside with month old cuties wrapped in their white blankets. I have not been able to determine what the house is- one thing I've learned about outside appearance- they give no clue as to inside inhabitants. I can't tell if the doorway leads to one apartment or many- if it is one family related or merely neighbors. What I know is there are babies, and they go to bed around 7.
I know this because if you round the corner between 7 and 8 you will see the women outside. They have the babies strapped to their backs and they are pacing, or rocking or just gazing at the moon. It is time for the babies to sleep so they take them outside and give them fresh air and quiet night filled only with far-away neighborhood sounds. I know enough now to suppose the women are not necessarily the moms, though perhaps they could be.
And I view this ritual from the future persepective. What memories will the babies hold of the cool night wind blowing in off the lagoon- soothing, refreshing, lulling them to sleep alongside the distant drums and steady rhythms of a hip-hop beat, calling children and barking dogs, men laughing and an occasional horn honking.
It's cozy and comforting. I understand why the boys want me to take Mbalia out to walk through the night sounds as she transitions into the world of dreaming with nature and man in it's most harmonious time.
I don't do it. It is one of those bridges I can't be expected to cross. We've begin developing our own nighttime routine- sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn't.
But I do enjoy the sight- the babies out for their evening stroll while their mamas talk on the phone or text someone or simply gaze out at the universe, contemplating the miracle of night.
Showing posts sorted by relevance for query drums at night. Sort by date Show all posts
Showing posts sorted by relevance for query drums at night. Sort by date Show all posts
8.11.15
3.1.18
Market Day
Walking into the marche artisinal was a feast for the senses. Artists were scattered everywhere, working on their craft- shaping the soles of shoes, lacing up djembes, knotting cotten hammocks and, of course, pouring tea.
It was a stark contrast to the CAVA of Abidjan, with it's neat and narrow pathways and solidly constructed storefronts that resembled little village houses. To be certain, artists are always busy at work there ,too, but they have a sense of space and organization that makes it all seem contained.
The Bamako market was spilling over with cords and leather scraps, the sounds of tin hammering and drums playing, the chatter of women and the sing song calls of vendors, scents of churai and the midday meal mingling in the air. While there were neat store fronts, typical Malian architecture almost demands an imposing and artistic design and the arts market offered no less, the stores were arranged in a large square, with the center area being the communal workshop. People- generally men- had laid down tarps and nats or otherwise staked their claim to the ground, and spread out their tools. The air was alive.
We walked around the edges, gazing into stalls, responding to the never ending invitations to come and look, browse my shop, see my wares, buy-buy-buy. We weren't buying. I was looking for some raffia. And maybe some beads or cowrie shells, though usually those things are not found in the artists market but down some narrow side street where you would least be expecting it.
A wall of masks called to me. Not just a wall but a huge mound of masks- dusty, wooden, some broken and deteriorating. It was a bit overwhelming. The sensation that consumes me when faced with such an array is hard to describe. I am not sure if other people feel this way. It is like history has transformed into a living, breathing thing, has manifested into a physical form and arrives on the wind to envelop me. I feel covered and cloaked and infused with peacefulness. I am immediately transported into an other, a place with no name and no location. It is simultaneously today and yesterday and tomorrow. Lobi. All at once.
It's intoxicating. I spent some time staring at masks, chiwara and nimba, long antelope faces that were especially captivating and the Bwa sun masks from Burkina Faso and parts of Mali. I wasn't alone on this trip however, and so I had to curb my inclination to be lost for hours. Instead I asked about the raffia I was hoping to find.
The mask seller told me raffia is not indigenous to Mali. I wouldn't be able to find it here. It comes from Cote d'Ivoire....as so many of the products here seem to. I bought some black cord from a drum maker for a ridiculous price instead. We had an interesting exchange, the seller, his friend and I. We talked about dance and art, Conakry and Congo. We even did a little rumba right there in market place.
Congo has that effect on people. They marvel about the music and gasp at the politics. "There is always some kind of trouble there. Always a conflict." After a million of those start-too-high, end-with-a-grasp-that-holds-on-a-little-too-long handshakes, that honestly, I always thought were just for between men, we finally left the market place. I am perpetually in danger of a reckless purchase of a mask or fabric or some other not completely needed item that just seems to 'call to me,' but today was a day of discipline. No purchases, save for the black cord and some bundles of incense intended for artmaking.
Christine is leaving soon for Abidjan and we had made the market trip to pick up some bazin and get a little henna tattoo. The trip to the arts market was an afterthought. I'd been wanting henna for a while, remembering the delicate beauty it brought to my hands when I experienced it in Kinshasa. It seemed like a fitting way to ring in the new year, a little splurging on ourselves. Feeling beautiful.
We ended up sitting at a street side beauty parlor with a few other women who'd also taken a bit of their day to pamper themselves. While we waited for our turn, I watched the people of the market. I am always amazed at the beauty of humans. There are so many graceful people in the world.
I was especially captivated by women browsing through clothes. The vendor was calling out the price of her wares, singing in Bambara. She went on for so long I wondered how she could keep it up all day. It was both magical and annoying. I imagined her at home at night, gargling to soothe her sore throat.
Several elegant women caught my eye, the shape of their faces accented by headscarves, their outlined eyes and long lashes mesmerizing me. It was hard to tear my gaze away. I stopped trying and merely observed the way they shopped, choosing clothes from the pile, holding them up for an instant before deciding to toss back or drape over their arm for purchase. The clothes, mostly shirts, were 300FCFA, making it convenient to acquire multiple items at once.
One of the women came over and joined her friends, who were sitting with us, either getting henna tattoos or having their nails painted. Some just gazed at themselves in a small mirror, making beauty adjustments. It is such a foreign practice to me, this being with other women, preening. I admired the way a few of them had tied their headscarves, a look I'd attempted to achieve but hadn't really been successful at. I finally leaned over and asked one of them to show me how.
It took awhile to make my request clear and, laughing, she finally relented. Her friend kept insisting she would tie me up if I wanted, and pointed out where I could snatch up a quick headscarf for only 500FCFA. I realized that my only problem in achieving the simple but sophisticated style was the length of my scarf. Surely I could manage this at home.
My inquiry lead to more talking, and touching and general camaraderie among us. It was a nice way to pass a few hours, sitting there on the edge of the busy market road, sellers trying their best to evoke a purchase, watching the people pass by- each in their own story.
I asked the woman if I could take her picture and she immediately struck a pose and flashed a smile. Christine laughed and gently turned her head. "No, of the scarf," she said. Our new friend hung her head in dejection and acquiesced. After getting the picture I wanted, I said, "Ok, now you." And the sun turned back on. Same pose, same bright smile.
Several times an earring seller passed by- I had to ask him eventually if he wasn't the one who had just passed by a minute ago. They were all selling the same thing and had an eerily similar way of holding them right up in my face so I had to jerk back just to breathe. "Princess, princess, buy a little something." The vendor is smooth and his words flow in a silky, clean rhythm that could rival any rap star. I smiled and shook my head. I refused a million ways before he finally moved on. "Princess, princess...." I heard him whisper to the next lady in line. I laughed at the player in him, an ardent peddler of women's jewelry.
He was not the only romeo on the streets that day. Christine attracts a lot of attention. So many marketers followed her, trying to get her to purchase bazin or shoes or even a pair of men's jeans. I have noticed some people naturally attract the sellers. Ousmane is a bit like that too. Going to the market with him means we can count on the hawkers trying to push their watches and belts and other fancy items on him. I imagine they see his beauty and sense his style and assume he likes nice things.
It can either be exhausting or amusing to watch this display of wasted energy exchange. Luckily, on this day I found it all amusing. My favorite declaration of love occurred when we were looking for a taxi to go home. We'd found a fairly small patch of calm to search amidst the chaos. Motorcycles, taxis and sotramas shared the narrow street with bicyclers, pedestrians and roaming vendors.
The roadway cleared for a second. Everything seemed to go quiet. A man zoomed by on a motorcycle only to stop short. "Vien cherie, je t'accompagnerai," he called out to Christine like a marriage proposal. He seemed to be lost in a romantic daze for a second before zooming off. In a film, a dramatic spotlight would have highlighted his declaration of longing.
"What courage," I laughed. And yet, how else could you really know if a beautiful woman might maybe just consider zooming off with you into paradise if you don't ask? Love takes risks sometimes.
It was a stark contrast to the CAVA of Abidjan, with it's neat and narrow pathways and solidly constructed storefronts that resembled little village houses. To be certain, artists are always busy at work there ,too, but they have a sense of space and organization that makes it all seem contained.
The Bamako market was spilling over with cords and leather scraps, the sounds of tin hammering and drums playing, the chatter of women and the sing song calls of vendors, scents of churai and the midday meal mingling in the air. While there were neat store fronts, typical Malian architecture almost demands an imposing and artistic design and the arts market offered no less, the stores were arranged in a large square, with the center area being the communal workshop. People- generally men- had laid down tarps and nats or otherwise staked their claim to the ground, and spread out their tools. The air was alive.
We walked around the edges, gazing into stalls, responding to the never ending invitations to come and look, browse my shop, see my wares, buy-buy-buy. We weren't buying. I was looking for some raffia. And maybe some beads or cowrie shells, though usually those things are not found in the artists market but down some narrow side street where you would least be expecting it.
A wall of masks called to me. Not just a wall but a huge mound of masks- dusty, wooden, some broken and deteriorating. It was a bit overwhelming. The sensation that consumes me when faced with such an array is hard to describe. I am not sure if other people feel this way. It is like history has transformed into a living, breathing thing, has manifested into a physical form and arrives on the wind to envelop me. I feel covered and cloaked and infused with peacefulness. I am immediately transported into an other, a place with no name and no location. It is simultaneously today and yesterday and tomorrow. Lobi. All at once.
It's intoxicating. I spent some time staring at masks, chiwara and nimba, long antelope faces that were especially captivating and the Bwa sun masks from Burkina Faso and parts of Mali. I wasn't alone on this trip however, and so I had to curb my inclination to be lost for hours. Instead I asked about the raffia I was hoping to find.
The mask seller told me raffia is not indigenous to Mali. I wouldn't be able to find it here. It comes from Cote d'Ivoire....as so many of the products here seem to. I bought some black cord from a drum maker for a ridiculous price instead. We had an interesting exchange, the seller, his friend and I. We talked about dance and art, Conakry and Congo. We even did a little rumba right there in market place.
Congo has that effect on people. They marvel about the music and gasp at the politics. "There is always some kind of trouble there. Always a conflict." After a million of those start-too-high, end-with-a-grasp-that-holds-on-a-little-too-long handshakes, that honestly, I always thought were just for between men, we finally left the market place. I am perpetually in danger of a reckless purchase of a mask or fabric or some other not completely needed item that just seems to 'call to me,' but today was a day of discipline. No purchases, save for the black cord and some bundles of incense intended for artmaking.
Christine is leaving soon for Abidjan and we had made the market trip to pick up some bazin and get a little henna tattoo. The trip to the arts market was an afterthought. I'd been wanting henna for a while, remembering the delicate beauty it brought to my hands when I experienced it in Kinshasa. It seemed like a fitting way to ring in the new year, a little splurging on ourselves. Feeling beautiful.
We ended up sitting at a street side beauty parlor with a few other women who'd also taken a bit of their day to pamper themselves. While we waited for our turn, I watched the people of the market. I am always amazed at the beauty of humans. There are so many graceful people in the world.
I was especially captivated by women browsing through clothes. The vendor was calling out the price of her wares, singing in Bambara. She went on for so long I wondered how she could keep it up all day. It was both magical and annoying. I imagined her at home at night, gargling to soothe her sore throat.
Several elegant women caught my eye, the shape of their faces accented by headscarves, their outlined eyes and long lashes mesmerizing me. It was hard to tear my gaze away. I stopped trying and merely observed the way they shopped, choosing clothes from the pile, holding them up for an instant before deciding to toss back or drape over their arm for purchase. The clothes, mostly shirts, were 300FCFA, making it convenient to acquire multiple items at once.
One of the women came over and joined her friends, who were sitting with us, either getting henna tattoos or having their nails painted. Some just gazed at themselves in a small mirror, making beauty adjustments. It is such a foreign practice to me, this being with other women, preening. I admired the way a few of them had tied their headscarves, a look I'd attempted to achieve but hadn't really been successful at. I finally leaned over and asked one of them to show me how.
It took awhile to make my request clear and, laughing, she finally relented. Her friend kept insisting she would tie me up if I wanted, and pointed out where I could snatch up a quick headscarf for only 500FCFA. I realized that my only problem in achieving the simple but sophisticated style was the length of my scarf. Surely I could manage this at home.
My inquiry lead to more talking, and touching and general camaraderie among us. It was a nice way to pass a few hours, sitting there on the edge of the busy market road, sellers trying their best to evoke a purchase, watching the people pass by- each in their own story.
I asked the woman if I could take her picture and she immediately struck a pose and flashed a smile. Christine laughed and gently turned her head. "No, of the scarf," she said. Our new friend hung her head in dejection and acquiesced. After getting the picture I wanted, I said, "Ok, now you." And the sun turned back on. Same pose, same bright smile.
 |
| Simple, elegant headscarf |
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| Beautiful humans are everywhere |
He was not the only romeo on the streets that day. Christine attracts a lot of attention. So many marketers followed her, trying to get her to purchase bazin or shoes or even a pair of men's jeans. I have noticed some people naturally attract the sellers. Ousmane is a bit like that too. Going to the market with him means we can count on the hawkers trying to push their watches and belts and other fancy items on him. I imagine they see his beauty and sense his style and assume he likes nice things.
It can either be exhausting or amusing to watch this display of wasted energy exchange. Luckily, on this day I found it all amusing. My favorite declaration of love occurred when we were looking for a taxi to go home. We'd found a fairly small patch of calm to search amidst the chaos. Motorcycles, taxis and sotramas shared the narrow street with bicyclers, pedestrians and roaming vendors.
The roadway cleared for a second. Everything seemed to go quiet. A man zoomed by on a motorcycle only to stop short. "Vien cherie, je t'accompagnerai," he called out to Christine like a marriage proposal. He seemed to be lost in a romantic daze for a second before zooming off. In a film, a dramatic spotlight would have highlighted his declaration of longing.
"What courage," I laughed. And yet, how else could you really know if a beautiful woman might maybe just consider zooming off with you into paradise if you don't ask? Love takes risks sometimes.
 |
| Christine and the henna artist |
 |
| One of the women shows off her design |
 | |||
| My turn- red only please.
Later found out this was a good decision. "Black" henna doesn't really exist and is a combination of natural henna and toxic chemicals. |
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| Simple design made up of mostly lines |
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| Road side vendors....the site of the moto proposal |
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| A lot happens street-side |
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| Twin designs |
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| More street side goods flashing by- 'window -shopping' Africa style |
1.3.16
Mystic
Three generations of dancers are standing before me, though I don't think they're necessarily related. They are the mask dancers - specially qualified and specifically initiated in the secret rituals associated with the full body costumes.
The choreographer for Mouaye, Lass, told me the story of how these dancers spent time in the village learning the art. "They are mystic." He is almost whispering. His reverence is understandable. Mask dancing requires incredible muscle control and strength.
I can't find a video of the one who seems to slide along the ground, defying all rules of natural human movement, but I have seen his performance a few times here in Abidjan. He is covered in raffia and moves like a hoverboard. It is enough to send the children scattering in peals of fear induced laughter.
They will be joining us at MASA- or rather, I will be joining them. I am incredibly honored (and more than a touch nervous) about the opportunity to be a part of such a big event. My teachers are amazing- in just one month I feel I have made so much more progress than all the months I spent dancing in Palmeraie. (Not to mention in just one month, they are confident enough in me to put me on stage with them.)
I usually spend at least one day a week concentrating on drum. I can see progress in this area as well. I am much better at practising at home- to be fair- but I've also gotten intriguing advice.
"If you really want the music to stick, you know what you do?" One of my drum teachers, also a Lass, is talking. They are always asking me to take recordings and make videos of my lessons. I am about to find out why. "In the night, in the middle of the night, like 1 or 2 o'clock when everything is quiet, you play the music. You let the sound fill up your sleeping. It will really permeate then. The drums are spiritual, mystic. They come out at night." He assures me this is a sure fire method for ingesting the rhythms. I am inclinded to believe him. With MASA less than a week away, I am open to everything.
The choreographer for Mouaye, Lass, told me the story of how these dancers spent time in the village learning the art. "They are mystic." He is almost whispering. His reverence is understandable. Mask dancing requires incredible muscle control and strength.
I can't find a video of the one who seems to slide along the ground, defying all rules of natural human movement, but I have seen his performance a few times here in Abidjan. He is covered in raffia and moves like a hoverboard. It is enough to send the children scattering in peals of fear induced laughter.
They will be joining us at MASA- or rather, I will be joining them. I am incredibly honored (and more than a touch nervous) about the opportunity to be a part of such a big event. My teachers are amazing- in just one month I feel I have made so much more progress than all the months I spent dancing in Palmeraie. (Not to mention in just one month, they are confident enough in me to put me on stage with them.)
I usually spend at least one day a week concentrating on drum. I can see progress in this area as well. I am much better at practising at home- to be fair- but I've also gotten intriguing advice.
"If you really want the music to stick, you know what you do?" One of my drum teachers, also a Lass, is talking. They are always asking me to take recordings and make videos of my lessons. I am about to find out why. "In the night, in the middle of the night, like 1 or 2 o'clock when everything is quiet, you play the music. You let the sound fill up your sleeping. It will really permeate then. The drums are spiritual, mystic. They come out at night." He assures me this is a sure fire method for ingesting the rhythms. I am inclinded to believe him. With MASA less than a week away, I am open to everything.
10.12.20
The retreat that wasn't
Despite my best intentions, I am not winning the life game balance of managing phd and, well, everything else. I finally turned in the last paper of the semester, marking two years complete in the program. Now that I have a moment to breathe, I can catch up on some emails, blog posts and writing of my own direction.
The semesters seem to get more intense and meeting deadlines ever more difficult. I've had to ask for an extension twice, suffered through multiple bouts of self-doubt and battled thoughts of quitting. Thoughts of quitting don't really gain much ground, but I do spend time wondering why exactly I decided to do this and if the supposed pay-off is really worth the time and effort. I realize the pay off is the personal growth that occurs through the journey- always worth the time and effort right? The hardest experiences lead to the deepest change, or something like that.
It was in the midst of crisis, deep avoidance and an outright inability to put word to page that I set out for a writer's retreat to Kisantu, home of the botanical gardens and sweet tales of a little village hosting quaint hotels with beautiful views.
I'd done some web research and was seduced by this page, authored by teachers I used to work with during my round one phase of living in Congo. I figured I could take their word for it- coupled with a few other sites I browsed. I imagined passing one whole day sitting in the gardens, typing away, and evenings sipping strong coffee in dim lighting, writing, writing, writing. I may have romanced the possibility a bit, but that's necessary when trying to complete a doctoral preliminary literature review. I needed it to be romantic and intimate, focused and productive. All of the things it wasn't.
The first mistake was thinking I had time to pass by an art show at the marché de liberté in Masina. The show itself was ok. There was some pretty impressive music by a group of school kids- marching band drums, soulful horns, cymbals on time. They were good. Dancers included a traditional group with raffia skirts, a fire dancer complete with flaming torch down the pants (what does it say about me that this is old news by now? I am marginally impressed by watching a guy thrust a flaming stick down the front of his skirt. I am always more worried the raffia will catch on fire and wonder what the trick is for avoiding that.) There was also a performance artist covered in slick oil turning his body midnight black. He found me in the crowd and came over for some intense eye contact while he mimicked my stance. All in great fun.
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| Marionette dancing to drums |
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| Participants and collectif members |
I had a chance to meet the emcee, an enthusiastic woman who is known for covering traditional arts and who gave me a shout out goodbye over the mic when it was time to go. I also met a woman balafon player- which seems rare in itself, but especially so in Congo- who works with a center serving young kids. I am very interested in following through on that opportunity. The Minister of Culture made an appearance and I got a tour of the artwork, complete with symbolic analysis by the artist himself. It was a worthwhile experience.
But it put me behind. By the time I found a mini-bus heading in the direction of the central station it was early afternoon. A man in a few seats in front of me turned and said, "Ntongo" which proved to be a prophetic warning. "One should really leave first thing in the morning if you're going to Kisantu."
When I arrived at the terminal, I found one bus full and a taxi with one passenger. This meant waiting for others to appear. The driver planned 4 in the back and 2 in the front. It could be hours. It was hours. As deadlines came and went, I decided that if we weren't on the road by 4pm I would just cancel my trip. Go home and write in my room. I'd already spent the entire day in transit of one form or another, in limbo, waiting, not writing.
By 4 o'clock however, I'd already paid and getting my money back was impossible. The original taxi we'd been waiting in turned out to be 'en panne' and we had to switch over to another. (And just before leaving, we stopped, in the rain, to give the battery a boost...not sure if that was the only source of the breakdown. Things are always just slightly less than clear.)
We were finally on the road. The long, winding, mountainous road to Kisantu. Simply put, the ride was terrifying. The chauffeur drove way too fast for the wet, curvy roads. He passed other cars often, sending us into the oncoming lane, which is not unusual for Congo driving, but in the dark, around the turns- it was breath stopping. I do admit part of my terror stemmed from the fact that my eyesight is particularly bad at night and distance is hard to gauge. I was sitting in the front and cars appeared much closer than they actually were (maybe. I am sure some of the close calls were pretty darn close.) I also don't spend much time in the car over long distance. City traffic is slow and halting. I am now completely unaccustomed to high speeds and so motion sickness likely played a part as well.
The driver made several pitstops along the way- once to collect money from a debt owed, once to buy bread, once for an unclear reason. The bread scene, reminiscent of my very first bread scene, was even more hectic than the chauffeur's driving. Women were pushing and shoving each other, stuffing bread in the car, and calling out prices. One woman even threw a small bag at the young guy sitting next to me. The chauffeur had had enough by this time and was zooming off. The young man, who'd already bought his share of bread and hadn't really asked for the flying rolls, didn't know what to do. He threw 1000fc out the window, calling out, "Ehh, Mama..." The occupants exploded into laughter at the craziness of it all.
Despite the death defying feats and unexplained stops, our ride was punctuated by heated exchanges ending in laughter. Most of the time it was quiet, or the chauffeur went on and on about some tale or another. It became apparent he'd been drinking and was full of that over-confidence that comes with being in one's territory and feeling like a king. I closed my eyes, put my head down, and gave over control. There was nothing more to be done. I understood a lot about the sense of resignation that Congolese must feel on an everyday basis. I also understood a lot about bad decisions and how to avoid them in the future.
I was torn at times between engaging the chauffeur in conversation and keeping quiet. I'd been stuffed into a carnival ride against my best interests and simply wanted it to be over. At one point, I glanced up to find he was shuffling through CDs, looking for the next great hit to play. He'd been alternating between singing and telling us about his life story- "I only have 3 kids, madame, like you Europeans. Can you believe that? It is not enough..." Keeping my mouth shut proved impossible and I asked if he could watch the road and not the music. This resulted in a huge monologue about his competence as a driver, his familiarity with the road, and his desire that I, a mundele, not be scared in his taxi. Exactly the reaction I'd wanted to avoid. The kind of response that leads to actually speeding up, just to show how competent he really is and swerving with even more zeal, just to show how in control of the car he is. I prayed a tire wouldn't give out.
Nearing our destination, we stopped to let one of the women drop off a printer she'd been charged with delivering. It had caused her a lot of grief at departure, where they wanted to charge her more for transporting an obviously high cost, precious item. She spent a little too long (not longer than the bread stop, surely not longer than the 30 minute debt collection stop) and the taxi driver actually sped off without her. I was amazed even as the other ladies exploded into laughter. I have to assume she was close to her final destination.
I got out on a dark street in what seemed to be the middle of nowhere. A taxi moto pulled up and offered to take me somewhere. My stomach was racing with the anxiety of the trip and thoughts of having to go through it all over again to get home. I asked the driver to take me directly to the hotel, which turned out to be a few kilometers up the road.
And not exactly like website promised. Of course, my former colleagues had published their site a few years before and all information on the internet is subject to change. I felt like a gap-year backpacker walking up the steps to the hotel, pulling open the creaky iron gate and peeking around for hotel staff. Luckily, I found someone at the desk, though it seemed like a chance meeting. There was a room available, sparse but clean with mosquito net. No restaurant.
My dreams of sipping an endless cup of tea and typing away to the chatter of birds instantly evaporated. He offered to send someone to find some bread and sardines for me, if I wanted. I didn't. I had traveled with a few small items and enough water to get me to morning. I sat down to work, exhausted, stomach still rolling with anxiety. I fell asleep to the lull of big trucks barreling down the roadway and some drunken neighbors fighting.
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| Beautiful grounds, beautiful exteriors: appeared to be mostly home to long term renters now with an occasional room or apartment suite available |
I needed a plan for the morning. I'd wasted nearly an entire day and the deadline remained. I woke early, wrote for about 2 hours and went in search of transportation. The hotel clerk was friendly, smiling and gracious. Excellent service. He hailed me a moto, negotiated the price and sent me on my way. The return car filled quickly in the morning hour, with merely a small dispute about price before we were on our way.
The drive began with horn honking and trail blazing zeal. I was in the second row this time and ready to just close my eyes and will a positive outcome. Not long outside of the village center, we passed an overturned tractor truck. A crowd was gathered on the opposite side of the road around a motorcycle and rider. There was no ambulance on the way. That is really the stressful part of reckless riding. I had been able to give my destiny over to the universe, but I was still afraid of suffering. There is no rapid response team (or even a slow response team) to arrive on scene. The thought of being thrown out of a car and laying a ditch for hours or even days is downright disturbing.
The chauffeur was smartly influenced by the scene and the rest of the ride passed calmly. I was able to gaze out the window at the passing countryside, enjoying the beauty of the green earth and blue sky. While my retreat was not one of the writing kind, it did offer the opportunity to see life in a new way.
My kitchen never seemed sweeter, my tea never tasted creamier, and my desk never felt cozier. Despite the retreat that wasn't, I met all my deadlines and am another year closer to PhinisheD. A preview of next semester tells me the most interesting part is yet to come.
17.11.15
Bowing to Kings
A mere 5 or so days after getting my computer back- all fixed and fresh with a crisp new screen- I broke it again. Yup, I broke it this time. I could get into the why's and how's and but it wasn't fair's, except that will only lead me down the road of discouragement and despair.
The positive thing about not having a computer at home is that I don't work all evening, every evening. It's not possible. When I go home at night to be with my family, the work stays in school- where it rightfully should.
Of course, it occasionally makes it hard to keep up with deadlines and I don't really enjoy spending every Sunday in my classroom- complete with cute little bunny in tow. It certainly makes writing for pleasure ever harder to get to, but...yeah, I was trying not to go down the road of despair.
The only things that offer true release from the world of work (aside from my little sunshine's laughter) is the world of dance. And drum. Music has a way of pushing all other things aside and claiming complete control.
I remember dancing in Congo- forever remember the zombie analogy- and see how far I have come. I actually miss Congolese dance, for one. The style and rhythms have helped me grow as a dancer in general.
My early teacher- a source of frustration for me at the time- has exploded into an amazing video choreographer and is working with a fabulous team in Belgium. I applaud her talent, her reaching for her dream and her success. Jolie is the shining star in many a video!
I am actually surprised at times by how much I miss Congo- and it's rhythms- especially since I recall the first year or so when my mind was colored by all things Guinean. It was hard to appreciate Kinshasa when my heart was aching for Conakry. But I am growing now and have found that loving dance and art and culture is a bit like being a parent. There is always room for the new and the old and the yet undiscovered.
These last few weeks, however, the drummers have been treating us with rhythms that remind me of my birth into the world of traditional dance. Oddly, I end up feeling a little nostalgic about African dance in New York. Moving across the floor as my body replays those steps from another time- it is like a warm and welcoming friend come to visit. When the teacher points me out to her group of young recruits and says, "She- she gets it. The only one." I know it is not fair. I want to tell her that the moves are good friends of mine. We go way back. I learned them long before coming to this class, this country, this time and space. But I remain silent, keeping our relationship hidden, secret and therefore all the more sacred.
At the same time, I have come to know some of the Ivorian dances pretty well. We are not lost in the jungle, bent-kneed and straight-backed zombies. Now- now we are peasants and villagers. We sow. We harvest. We cook and serve. We entice and praise. We dance with all the ordinariness of daily life and turn it into beauty. Most of the movements are low with a forward bend. Our backs pulse and arms circle out and around and in again. The movements are fluid and smooth, a perfect accompaniment to the drums. But we are never low enough.
"Get down,' our teacher will say. "You are bowing to kings." I've been keeping this piece of humility in mind as my reality spins out its tale. Yes, I am bowing to kings here in Abidjan. There are so many ways to interpret this- and currently my state of affairs fits them all.
The positive thing about not having a computer at home is that I don't work all evening, every evening. It's not possible. When I go home at night to be with my family, the work stays in school- where it rightfully should.
Of course, it occasionally makes it hard to keep up with deadlines and I don't really enjoy spending every Sunday in my classroom- complete with cute little bunny in tow. It certainly makes writing for pleasure ever harder to get to, but...yeah, I was trying not to go down the road of despair.
The only things that offer true release from the world of work (aside from my little sunshine's laughter) is the world of dance. And drum. Music has a way of pushing all other things aside and claiming complete control.
I remember dancing in Congo- forever remember the zombie analogy- and see how far I have come. I actually miss Congolese dance, for one. The style and rhythms have helped me grow as a dancer in general.
My early teacher- a source of frustration for me at the time- has exploded into an amazing video choreographer and is working with a fabulous team in Belgium. I applaud her talent, her reaching for her dream and her success. Jolie is the shining star in many a video!
I am actually surprised at times by how much I miss Congo- and it's rhythms- especially since I recall the first year or so when my mind was colored by all things Guinean. It was hard to appreciate Kinshasa when my heart was aching for Conakry. But I am growing now and have found that loving dance and art and culture is a bit like being a parent. There is always room for the new and the old and the yet undiscovered.
These last few weeks, however, the drummers have been treating us with rhythms that remind me of my birth into the world of traditional dance. Oddly, I end up feeling a little nostalgic about African dance in New York. Moving across the floor as my body replays those steps from another time- it is like a warm and welcoming friend come to visit. When the teacher points me out to her group of young recruits and says, "She- she gets it. The only one." I know it is not fair. I want to tell her that the moves are good friends of mine. We go way back. I learned them long before coming to this class, this country, this time and space. But I remain silent, keeping our relationship hidden, secret and therefore all the more sacred.
At the same time, I have come to know some of the Ivorian dances pretty well. We are not lost in the jungle, bent-kneed and straight-backed zombies. Now- now we are peasants and villagers. We sow. We harvest. We cook and serve. We entice and praise. We dance with all the ordinariness of daily life and turn it into beauty. Most of the movements are low with a forward bend. Our backs pulse and arms circle out and around and in again. The movements are fluid and smooth, a perfect accompaniment to the drums. But we are never low enough.
"Get down,' our teacher will say. "You are bowing to kings." I've been keeping this piece of humility in mind as my reality spins out its tale. Yes, I am bowing to kings here in Abidjan. There are so many ways to interpret this- and currently my state of affairs fits them all.
4.4.15
Ten random things covering white strangers, burned children, taxi tricks and TV appearances…
It’s no use
talking about my internet connection and/or computer issues. You may as well
just assume prolonged absence equals one or both of the above. In the meantime, I’ve been collecting ideas.
Here are 10 random observations/experiences from life in Abidjan (trying to get
back my “stranger’s eyes” to present things that might be different- or yet the
same- about life in Africa.)
- · I leave my house at 6:50 every morning. What I notice most are the women sweeping. As I make my way through the neighborhood, they are everywhere- in front of every house with their small bundle of sticks tied together to form that traditional broom, sweeping up the garbage left by passersby from the night before. Lately I have been seeing an older man walking with a hand crutch. He is getting faster and I can tell he is trying to recover movement from some injury or illness. He is faithful in his routine and determined in his stride. Noticing his perseverance is enough to inspire gratefulness in me. I walk easily and quickly to my destination. Something to be thankful for.
- · When I return the sweepers have morphed into sellers and they sit at their tables under umbrellas offering fruit, attieke, alloco (fried plantains) and soups or sauces they have prepared. I might pass any number of men praying outside their storefronts and it reminds me that Abidjan is (currently) a mix of peaceful religions. It’s something I like, all the churches and mosques which seem in equal abundance.
- · One morning as I was walking along lost in thought, 3 white people came around the corner. I was surprised by the sight of them- found them foreign actually and wondered what they were doing there. It took me a few minutes to realize that I probably look just like them. I spend my time looking out from behind my eyes and rarely at my own skin that I forget my otherness. It reminded me of a time when I was in Guinea and saw some Peace Corps workers coming up off the beach. They looked pale and ghostly, even ill to my eyes which had grown accustomed to rich brown skin with its dark, healthy sheen. There is a poem about that- about us being trapped within ourselves and only looking out. I remember it from 5th grade, something about someone with an ugly face that didn’t really bother him or her because they could never actually see it. It used this word ‘ajar’ which I’ve never forgotten, though I haven’t been able to find the poem again. (I think I’ve written of this before. After 7 years of blogging, it might be inevitable that I begin to repeat myself. Forgive me, or rather, indulge me.)
- · When I arrive at the corner, I search for a yellow taxi to take me up the hill. This past week they have been waiting, empty or half- filled and I have only to hop in. Other weeks, they are hard to come by and lines of people push and shove to get a space. I can’t find any rhythm to the lack or abundance, except it seems one week of scarcity is usually followed by a week of abundance. The week before last I actually ended up walking all the way to school which made me 20 minutes late and left me drenched in sweat.
- · I used to think of the yellow taxis as a kind of cavalry arriving to gallantly bring the masses to their duties. I had patience in waiting for them to come swooping down the hill, sometimes in twos or threes- just the perfect number to accommodate everyone at once. A few experiences since then have changed my analogy. The first- that long, hot walk to work. The second – the negotiations. Because it is morning and demand is high, some of the drivers only accept 150 to go up the hill, when the usual price is 100. Most never have change and so people who are looking for monnae are out of luck. There is a bit of a monopoly on transportation and so we passengers have no choice but to find the extra 50 franc and come with exact change. One orange taxi driver tried to raise the price because I didn’t have exact change. “Change costs money in Abidjan,” he told me. “But only the Christians do that, non?” I threw the religion card because in Islam-maybe all religions?- usury (using money to make money such as interest in repaying debts) is forbidden. For good reason I think. He had no response and we agreed on the regular price, my lack of change no longer a problem.
- · I have noticed, on those busy weeks when taxis are short and crowds are full, a sneak attack. It looks like this: The taxi pulls up and the jostling begins as people surge forward. Some lean in to talk to the driver (a sure way to lose a spot. While you are discussing destination or change, someone leaps in and takes your spot. But that is not the sneak attack.) While everyone is trying to get in the door, some clever (or devious) person will run around to the other side (or sometimes even come from across the street, recklessly launching himself into traffic in hopes of securing a seat.) They open the door and squeeze into the left hand side (safety generally assumes right side entry and exit.) This sneak attack works just as often as it doesn’t. Sometimes the people who had assumed they had the three spots in back angrily push back and the sneak attacker is forced back out the way he had come. Other times, the person is able to hop in and securely claim their space. It’s a little bit of action adventure (and sometimes comedy) entertainment in my morning.
- · While I am at school I observe the children running around at recess. I love to watch their made up games, their devilish smiles and the intense concentration they put into sports. I’ve come to recognize most of the kids who play in my area since they seem to choose the same games and stick to something of a routine. There are quite a few kids with body burns and large scars. One boy in particular has noticeable head wounds, healed but no hair will grow there. Several have arm burns. I don’t know the story behind any of them or why there seems to be an abundance of this, but I notice it. I wonder if the other kids make fun of them- I’ve never seen or heard it in my short half hour outside with them. What I see, however, with my mother’s eyes, are children that are graced to be here. Their struggle with death is evident and I imagine the family- the mother, the father, the aunts and uncles- who are feeling grateful to have their child still among the living. When I see these children running and playing happily, I look at them and think of how they must be loved.
- · My neighbor, the screenwriter, has visited me and invited me to the casting of her script next Saturday. She’s assured me she will give me a preview of the lines I am to read and tell me a bit about what to expect there (beaucoup de gens, is what she said. Exactly what I am afraid of. ) I’ve been trying to determine if I am trying out for my role or if it is assured. I get the sense it is assured, being that it is a small part and requires a white woman. But surely, Abidjan is plein des etrangers and I am not the only white woman here. She’s also looking for a biracial 17 year old, if you know anyone. She had her eye on Mohamed for a minute but he is too young. It turns out the TV series might not be my debut on Ivorian TV as my class was filmed last Friday for a documentary-like presentation on French schools in Africa and the use of technology. I prepared a SMARTBoard lesson and we suffered through it while they filmed us. To be certain, the kids were quiet and deathly calm, not at all like their usually lively selves. The film crew visited three classes at our school and in the end will compile a 2 minute clip of us- so we may or may not make the montage. But as a trial run, being in front of the camera was not too disturbing. I could make a career out of it yet.
- · I’ve come to realize that teaching English, or teaching in English, is not so much about the learning but the unlearning. I hadn’t before fully grasped that the biggest challenge is undoing the bad habits my students have picked up and helping them form new ones. I know I struggle with this in my own language learning- and certainly just in the name of habits in general. Breaking bad habits is no easy task, establishing new ones always a challenge. Another of those teacher talents we must develop in order to achieve success.
- · The happiest news is that I have finally found a dance class- live drums, students of all ages and races and a price I can afford. Surely there will be a full length post about dance in Ivory Coast once I get a few classes under my belt. I am so excited about this possibility. Dance was one of those strong motivating factors for coming here and it has been hard having patience these last eight months.
So there it is, 10 random things that have been
filling my mind these past few weeks. I’m off to snap some photos of the
building methods- fascinating and eye pleasing feats of architecture rampant
around town. Stay tuned…….
18.8.12
Anna & Jolie
I continue to reflect on the days I spent with the girls. I am still thinking about them, 2 in particular but really the children as a group. I found myself locked in twice, once while we were still playing and someone had gone off to the market. The second time both of the workers had returned and so I am not sure exactly how it is we found ourselves locked in. I was ready to leave and calls for the key produced nothing. I sat down next to the girls who were helping carry my stuff to the car and we sang and danced and played drums on the containers. We talked and laughed and I learned a lot of Lingala in those 20 minutes.
Jolie is an older girl, somewhere between 11-14 I would guess, and has the most French. She served as my translator for the most part on Sunday when there was no one else around. With shaven hair and an erect posture she exuded a certain grace and patience. Kindness. Jolie is intelligent and thoughtful, the kind of girl you would be proud to call your daughter. Anna is a little cutie that appears about 4 but is probably actually closer to 6. She is spunky and fierce and I saw her devilishly tearing around a corner, fleeing one of the girls she had irritated in some way. The pesky little sister.
The problem for me is that, for the most part, these children aren't orphans. Many of them have homes and families, siblings, aunts and uncles, parents. And I can't help but look at Anna and wonder how it is her mother, her father, her aunties---someone---isn't thinking of her, wondering where she is and losing sleep over her absence in the house.
This Ramadan has been especially difficult for me as I've encountered something like a crisis of faith. I have been struggling to put together the pieces that make sense to me and figure out exactly what I can believe in, without doubt. Or maybe doubt is a constant part of having faith. But this struggle only further serves to create a distance between me and families like those of Anna. Often the families have been told by their church that the child is a sorcerer and I just can't imagine having that much faith in something. I can't imagine giving my life over to anyone who would tell me to put my child out. And I don't understand how sleep comes at night.
But I am learning that sometimes understanding is not the path. The folks at ORPER have a program based on reintegration. They work to move kids from the day centers to the home centers and back to their families. It is an arduous process. I don't know how many of the children who are returned end up back on the streets. As always, I land in the middle when trying to determine what is the best placement for kids like these. The cynical part of me believes someone who could be convinced to throw their child away once could be convinced to do it again. The optimist in me believes perhaps there are families out there grateful to have been given a second chance and have their eyes opened to the treasure they have. But I haven't stopped thinking about Anna since I met her three weeks ago. And I know where she is. Most likely her family remains in the dark. They just turned their backs and walked away..... Ramadan mubarak but it's not really a happy eid. I am struggling with this....
Jolie is an older girl, somewhere between 11-14 I would guess, and has the most French. She served as my translator for the most part on Sunday when there was no one else around. With shaven hair and an erect posture she exuded a certain grace and patience. Kindness. Jolie is intelligent and thoughtful, the kind of girl you would be proud to call your daughter. Anna is a little cutie that appears about 4 but is probably actually closer to 6. She is spunky and fierce and I saw her devilishly tearing around a corner, fleeing one of the girls she had irritated in some way. The pesky little sister.
The problem for me is that, for the most part, these children aren't orphans. Many of them have homes and families, siblings, aunts and uncles, parents. And I can't help but look at Anna and wonder how it is her mother, her father, her aunties---someone---isn't thinking of her, wondering where she is and losing sleep over her absence in the house.
This Ramadan has been especially difficult for me as I've encountered something like a crisis of faith. I have been struggling to put together the pieces that make sense to me and figure out exactly what I can believe in, without doubt. Or maybe doubt is a constant part of having faith. But this struggle only further serves to create a distance between me and families like those of Anna. Often the families have been told by their church that the child is a sorcerer and I just can't imagine having that much faith in something. I can't imagine giving my life over to anyone who would tell me to put my child out. And I don't understand how sleep comes at night.
But I am learning that sometimes understanding is not the path. The folks at ORPER have a program based on reintegration. They work to move kids from the day centers to the home centers and back to their families. It is an arduous process. I don't know how many of the children who are returned end up back on the streets. As always, I land in the middle when trying to determine what is the best placement for kids like these. The cynical part of me believes someone who could be convinced to throw their child away once could be convinced to do it again. The optimist in me believes perhaps there are families out there grateful to have been given a second chance and have their eyes opened to the treasure they have. But I haven't stopped thinking about Anna since I met her three weeks ago. And I know where she is. Most likely her family remains in the dark. They just turned their backs and walked away..... Ramadan mubarak but it's not really a happy eid. I am struggling with this....
15.6.11
the loveliest thing
They said things like, “that’s a talented group of people you were with” and “it was entertaining,” which speaks volumes for what they didn’t say. And while I meant to smile and be a show person, it’s definitely something I am working on. The dance area was small, there were no blinding lights which could send me back to the rehearsals of my memory and the audience was quiet. I almost preferred the shouts of mondele.
But there was so much more to this performance than the actual show. The loveliest thing was getting ready. I was prepped, dressed and made-up by men. A ticklish turn around to the stereotypical female preening. As a fire warmed the drums, someone wrapped me in a raffia skirt and raked his hands through the tangles. I felt like a princess as beaded necklaces were draped over my head and across my chest. Various headwraps were tried and discarded, my dreds being a bit too fluffy on top to accommodate a wrap. The men prepared each other as well, applying face powder and painting on tribal markings. It’s always behind the scenes that holds the most flavor. I stood still with eyes closed and an upturned face as Dendu scooped up the red powder. I felt his hands pass across my cheeks and heard him exclaim in a whispered breath, “beautiful.” Since we were outside, there was no way to check my appearance but sometimes feeling it is all that’s needed. I was passed on to someone else who applied white dots across my face and down my arms. And then we waited.
Having spent 15 years in the restaurant business, I am well accustomed to enjoying the party from the fringe. I find it exactly satisfying, providing a sense of purpose and lifting all social pressure to engage in small talk with people I barely know while still allowing for a sense of festivity. So we sat outside, waiting for our cue and myself wishing the little Lingala I know was more at hand. We grew cold together out there in the cool breezes of a Kinshasa night in June. I laughed as I watched them become more animated, dancing and drumming on the bleachers in an effort to keep warm.
The truth of it being, these guys were amazing. Despite the quiet audience filled with cameras but little spirit, they exuded energy and ability. I am honored to have had the chance to be part of their group and while, I vow, should I get a “next time” I’ll smile more, have more fun, be less terrified, I still have those moments before hand etched in my mind like a magical memory. A soft pressure against my cheeks, a whisper of beautiful in the night air. Exactly how it feels to be dancing.
3.5.11
danse toujour
Some dreams have a way of sneaking up on you. They’re the kind of dreams you hold onto in the back of your mind, the ones that you visualize before falling asleep or when you’re taking a long ride on a hot and noisy bus. They’re the kind of dreams you recognize in the movies and say, “Yeah, that could be me.” But it’s not really you even though you’ve been following all the steps that you think could possibly lead you there. It’s the kind of dream you hope happens, but you’re not really convinced will happen.
I guess there is something of a difference between a dream and a goal, although at times it feels like a dream is something you hold onto before it happens and a goal is what you call it once you’ve managed to achieve it---by whatever means. Several times in my life now, I’ve looked back to realize I have achieved quite a number of the things I set out to do and am a bit astonished to think I’ve reached my goals, actually made them reality. Because much of the time, I feel like I am stumbling through life trying to make the best of the poor decisions from my youth.
It was during our spring break that I had the chance to experience that rare moment when you just know everything is going to be all right. I had thrown together something from my wardrobe that I felt would suffice, whatever black and white I had. It wasn’t exactly what I wanted, but it was me and it was comfortable. I found myself tucked away in the back corner of a small open air bar, changing for my first performance in Congo, my first performance ever I guess I could truthfully add. Jacques handed me some clothes he said he’d purchased just for this event. He had mentioned it before but I had prepared for ill fitting clothes, too tight, too small, something that would make me self-conscious and unable to feel truly free.
The nervousness I had was only slight. I’d spent most of the day visualizing myself on stage, smiling, feeling the music, doing what I love to do most. Of course, I felt entirely uncertain it would go that way- I also spent a good bit of energy suffocating the thought that I might just freeze up and forget everything. It could happen.
However, as I slipped on the silky smooth black pants I was surprised by a comforting fit. The white cotton shirt was equally soothing. That was the moment I knew everything was going to be fine. I wasn’t going to forget the steps or freeze up. I was going to dance.
What I found is that being on stage can be quite deceptive. There is no audience. The lights leave you blinded and impossible as it seems, you could almost imagine yourself alone up there, practicing just as you do when you’re in the studio. I imagine the experienced performer can use that to their advantage and lose themselves in the music, the rhythms, the call of the audience.
And the audience did call. Being the only white face in a small troupe of African dancers leaves you nowhere to hide. The Congolese audience holds a potential to be quite candid. I was not sure how forgiving they would really be. “Mondele, mondele.” The shouting began as soon as we took our first steps out. They continued pretty much throughout the entire 15 minute performance. I was happy not to know what else they were saying but chose to interpret their cries as encouragement.
It took me some moments to forget the sheer fright of being on stage and simply feel the music. Once that happened, I fell in love. A pure joy of performing. I relished the moments just before stepping out into the lights when we exchanged a quick double hand grasp for encouragement. I loved it from the moment the drums reached in and spoke to my soul right up to the last moment when Coco’s hand reached out to find mine and we took our bow together. We rushed off stage and I was cascaded with congratulations and hugs. As the dancers drifted off to cool down and change, Jacques called them back. They encircled me once again and let out whooping calls and shrill whistles. Initiated. That’s how I felt. I’d done it, my first show.
It took me some moments to forget the sheer fright of being on stage and simply feel the music. Once that happened, I fell in love. A pure joy of performing. I relished the moments just before stepping out into the lights when we exchanged a quick double hand grasp for encouragement. I loved it from the moment the drums reached in and spoke to my soul right up to the last moment when Coco’s hand reached out to find mine and we took our bow together. We rushed off stage and I was cascaded with congratulations and hugs. As the dancers drifted off to cool down and change, Jacques called them back. They encircled me once again and let out whooping calls and shrill whistles. Initiated. That’s how I felt. I’d done it, my first show.
I heard later that the audience wasn’t all that confident in me to begin with but eventually acquiesced. To be clear, I didn’t perform a heart stopping solo or a sensual Congolese grind, but I did keep up, remember the steps and perform as part of team. And that was the part that truly left me feeling exhilarated all night. The sense of having made a connection, a feeling of belonging. It’s the part that keeps us human. And it’s why I love the practices as much as that final celebration of showing off how hard we’ve worked. It’s been a long time coming, feeling truly connected here in this foreign land caught between a myriad of worlds as I am.
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