When I arrive the meeting is in full swing. It is possibly wrapping up, though African meetings are known to give several false starts to a final conclusion. Metaphors and analogies are flying faster and farther and settling deeper than an Olympic shot put. I resist the urge to take out my phone and make notes. One speaker has barely finished { a tale of how an artist's life is like a tiger's, for example- and it's purely a fictional example} before another one begins and says, " I want to just build on to what he (or she) said..." and then launches into a parable about how an artist's life is like an elephant's, by way of explaining. And bringing clarity to the discussion.
It is a behind the scenes glimpse at a dance company's meeting and preparation for the chance of their lifetimes. The message, whether tiger or elephant, is clear. An artist's life is hard and when opportunity comes, you must be prepared to fully grasp it. Fight for it. Don't let go.
The Company Mouaye are getting ready for the huge arts conference happening in Abidjan next month. MASA is an international arts festival in which artists from all genres have a chance to present their work to an audience of professionals in the field. It is their opportunity to network and get their name known in the business. It is also a chance for agents and talent scouts to discover the very best in entertainment. Performers are coming from all over West Africa and even beyond.
There is a seriousness and excitement to this meeting. The woman in charge has wound down her speech. She is giving direction about how to act during the dance workshop that is coming up (helpful advice for how to handle the ex-pat participants) as well as how to seize the opportunity that MASA presents. She hands the floor to an older gentleman.
He reiterates many of the same points. It is important to show your best face at MASA and to put forth your best talent. You must work as part of a group, he says, and that means believing in the spirit of the group. You can't stand off to the side with your back turned and still be part of the group. He says a hand must use all of it's fingers to function properly. You wouldn't put your foot down with just one toe and expect to be able to walk on it, he continues.
It is just as important to listen to your teammates. If they want to correct a movement or a sound, you need to listen. He doesn't say it like this really. Instead he says, "You must wear the skin of a woman, because a woman is a receiver. She is open. If you wear the skin of a man you will be stubborn and resist (the feedback you are given). You will search for war."
Later, as we are walking down the road, I mention that I loved this analogy the best. The two dancers I am with laugh at me for liking this one most. But I appreciate the suggestion that we all have both "skins" inside of us and we can change them according to need.
I thought back to times when I was feeling particularly stubborn or unable to hear a piece of advice. I saw myself in my "man skin-" controlling and insistent. And I thought of other times when I was able to conquer that and remain open and flexible. My "woman" skin prevailing. It is another reminder that the genders are complimentary, not equal or unequal, but in balance. Yet another thing to strive for.
23.2.16
14.2.16
Garlic and a paintbrush
I noticed the garlic tucked beneath console. I considered the implications (vampires, of course) and inquired of the driver. "It's for you, the garlic?" I ask. He laughs and tells me no, it is for his partner. They share the cab and so he respects the other driver's beliefs.
"This is for me." He pats the visor where a bible is tucked. "But since we share, I leave him his beliefs and he leaves me mine." I remark that it is a good thing. They could each be benefitting from the other. Who knows which belief is better in the end? He laughs again and agrees.
It is a larger symbol of the Ivoirian people. Tolerant. Accepting. I love to hear about life from the taxi drivers. A few days later I run across someone with a paintbrush laying across the console. I am intrigued.
"And the paintbrush?" I ask. "What is that for?" He laughs and tells me it is not a paintbrush. He shows me how he uses it to keep the dust from his radio and the dashboard. We all have our priorities. Our important beliefs. From Godliness to cleanliness. And even to garlic.
"This is for me." He pats the visor where a bible is tucked. "But since we share, I leave him his beliefs and he leaves me mine." I remark that it is a good thing. They could each be benefitting from the other. Who knows which belief is better in the end? He laughs again and agrees.
It is a larger symbol of the Ivoirian people. Tolerant. Accepting. I love to hear about life from the taxi drivers. A few days later I run across someone with a paintbrush laying across the console. I am intrigued.
"And the paintbrush?" I ask. "What is that for?" He laughs and tells me it is not a paintbrush. He shows me how he uses it to keep the dust from his radio and the dashboard. We all have our priorities. Our important beliefs. From Godliness to cleanliness. And even to garlic.
In the middle of nothingness
I read somewhere that one of the habits of successful people is to buy similar clothing items. To reduce their stress level, all of the clothing items should be able to go together and picked quickly or even at random. Reducing the number of decisions made in a day allowed them to save brain space for the really important matters.
I think about this frequently when I am negotiating for a taxi. It is exhausting and takes up too much of my valuable brain space. I have gotten a little better about making it less emotional (ok, I haven't really gotten better at all but I want to get better, that's a start, right?) What I mean is, there are times when I name my price and if it isn't good enough I walk away quickly and hail another cab, before the driver can backtrack and lead me down a road of hostage negotiation. Mostly this is when I am in a hurry and unwilling to waiver on my price. I think I can get good at this.
Going out to Abobo several times a week - and under stress of time- has offered up a new world of stories to choose from. There is the scenery itself, which moves from suburbia to broken down cars lining the highway alongside car part and repair shacks that open up (impossibly) to cattle and horse grazing fields and close back in again to the busy life of a ghetto. I've asked about the horses. I don't understand why people keep horses in Abidjan, if they are not for riding and they clearly don't have the space a horse needs to run. I've been told they keep them as pets, like dogs. Seems like an awfully expensive dog. I have a slight suspicion there is more to the story that I haven't discovered yet.
A few taxi drivers refuse to even go to Abobo. On the most recent trip, I had the good fortune to have a driver from Guinea. We passed the time talking about travels in Africa, his family in America and his plans to join them soon. As we arrived to the outskirts he shook his head. "Abobo. It's a different kind of life here."
I'd been reflecting on the layers of life in Abidjan and wondering how exactly to put my finger on the difference. I like Abobo, there is an element that reaches in and awakens memories, makes me feel at home. But it wasn't really until I was visiting one of the dancers, who missed rehearsal, that I truly understood.
"We are children of the ghetto," my teacher was saying. He was the one who had invited me to stop by and visit Khady. She wasn't feeling well- not sick, just spiritually off. They call it "getting hot" as in "ca chauffe" meaning things are getting difficult or stressful. The members of Mouyae are big on their sense of family and so we were paying a visit to let her know she wasn't alone.
We traveled from Abobo to Adjame- the infamous market town. Adjame is the home to all of the things you need or want or just wish for. It is the kind of crowded and busy that is typical of African market place cities. Where the goods are gathered, so too are the people, deal making, negotiating, looking for a way to make a living .
After getting off the first dinah (I'm told this is the nicer name for gbaka- the gbakas are sort of rotted out, rusting pieces of metal- the dinah are more like mini-buses. I'm not sure there is a real difference, but I feel like I am beginning to tell them apart) we walked down a big hill and grabbed a local taxi. We sprinted up the road a bit and then got out. A right turn off the main road transported us into another world. The dirt path wound down the hillside. Steps and garbage and the tread of a million shoes were worn into it. It felt like a living, breathing thing. It reminded me of Dead Man's Vlei from Nancy Farmer's The Ear, the Eye and the Arm.
If I sometimes get annoyed by the sandy walk from my house to the main road, I realized at the moment that it could be worse. It can always be worse. My road, though sandy, is also meant for cars. It was clear the path we were on rarely saw cars. Children were playing everywhere, people had put out their mats and were sitting in front of their small cement homes. This kind of house consists of one or two small, hot rooms.One usually holds some furniture and a tv. It is the meeting space. The other holds the aluminum pots for cooking. It is a dark room, empty except for the wooden plank shelf piled high with other kitchen gear. The room I walk into has a cookstove in the middle with a pot holding the evening sauce. And the endless buckets and bowls of water.
It is all the reminder I need to appreciate my own house, which had been troubling me lately. I wonder why I feel most at home here. I think it is the struggle. As we leave, we pass masses of people in the dark making their way home down crowded streets. We walk up the stairs to an overpass and it is littered with young guys in the middle of their work out routine. They run the stairs, up down up down. They run the overpass and back again. They line the ground doing sitting ups and knee bends and back arm push ups. It has been transformed into an outdoor gym.
In the middle of their nothingness, they have continued the fight. I have never really understood why I feel most at home among the orphans, the poor, the handicapped. But I suspect it has to do with struggling just to be- and overcoming. I know something about this. There is energy and spirit and the will to make something out of whatever can be gathered. It feels good like home.
I think about this frequently when I am negotiating for a taxi. It is exhausting and takes up too much of my valuable brain space. I have gotten a little better about making it less emotional (ok, I haven't really gotten better at all but I want to get better, that's a start, right?) What I mean is, there are times when I name my price and if it isn't good enough I walk away quickly and hail another cab, before the driver can backtrack and lead me down a road of hostage negotiation. Mostly this is when I am in a hurry and unwilling to waiver on my price. I think I can get good at this.
Going out to Abobo several times a week - and under stress of time- has offered up a new world of stories to choose from. There is the scenery itself, which moves from suburbia to broken down cars lining the highway alongside car part and repair shacks that open up (impossibly) to cattle and horse grazing fields and close back in again to the busy life of a ghetto. I've asked about the horses. I don't understand why people keep horses in Abidjan, if they are not for riding and they clearly don't have the space a horse needs to run. I've been told they keep them as pets, like dogs. Seems like an awfully expensive dog. I have a slight suspicion there is more to the story that I haven't discovered yet.
A few taxi drivers refuse to even go to Abobo. On the most recent trip, I had the good fortune to have a driver from Guinea. We passed the time talking about travels in Africa, his family in America and his plans to join them soon. As we arrived to the outskirts he shook his head. "Abobo. It's a different kind of life here."
I'd been reflecting on the layers of life in Abidjan and wondering how exactly to put my finger on the difference. I like Abobo, there is an element that reaches in and awakens memories, makes me feel at home. But it wasn't really until I was visiting one of the dancers, who missed rehearsal, that I truly understood.
"We are children of the ghetto," my teacher was saying. He was the one who had invited me to stop by and visit Khady. She wasn't feeling well- not sick, just spiritually off. They call it "getting hot" as in "ca chauffe" meaning things are getting difficult or stressful. The members of Mouyae are big on their sense of family and so we were paying a visit to let her know she wasn't alone.
We traveled from Abobo to Adjame- the infamous market town. Adjame is the home to all of the things you need or want or just wish for. It is the kind of crowded and busy that is typical of African market place cities. Where the goods are gathered, so too are the people, deal making, negotiating, looking for a way to make a living .
After getting off the first dinah (I'm told this is the nicer name for gbaka- the gbakas are sort of rotted out, rusting pieces of metal- the dinah are more like mini-buses. I'm not sure there is a real difference, but I feel like I am beginning to tell them apart) we walked down a big hill and grabbed a local taxi. We sprinted up the road a bit and then got out. A right turn off the main road transported us into another world. The dirt path wound down the hillside. Steps and garbage and the tread of a million shoes were worn into it. It felt like a living, breathing thing. It reminded me of Dead Man's Vlei from Nancy Farmer's The Ear, the Eye and the Arm.
If I sometimes get annoyed by the sandy walk from my house to the main road, I realized at the moment that it could be worse. It can always be worse. My road, though sandy, is also meant for cars. It was clear the path we were on rarely saw cars. Children were playing everywhere, people had put out their mats and were sitting in front of their small cement homes. This kind of house consists of one or two small, hot rooms.One usually holds some furniture and a tv. It is the meeting space. The other holds the aluminum pots for cooking. It is a dark room, empty except for the wooden plank shelf piled high with other kitchen gear. The room I walk into has a cookstove in the middle with a pot holding the evening sauce. And the endless buckets and bowls of water.
It is all the reminder I need to appreciate my own house, which had been troubling me lately. I wonder why I feel most at home here. I think it is the struggle. As we leave, we pass masses of people in the dark making their way home down crowded streets. We walk up the stairs to an overpass and it is littered with young guys in the middle of their work out routine. They run the stairs, up down up down. They run the overpass and back again. They line the ground doing sitting ups and knee bends and back arm push ups. It has been transformed into an outdoor gym.
In the middle of their nothingness, they have continued the fight. I have never really understood why I feel most at home among the orphans, the poor, the handicapped. But I suspect it has to do with struggling just to be- and overcoming. I know something about this. There is energy and spirit and the will to make something out of whatever can be gathered. It feels good like home.
7.2.16
mouaye
Mouaye means something like luck in Baoule. I haven't gotten the details (is it more of a Chinese curse kind of luck? Random chance? Good wishes or a desperate plea?.....There are so many interpretations of 'luck.')
It also happens to be the name of the dance troupe I am currently studying with. I've only gone to a few rehearsals, but it appears promising. Everyone has been so welcoming to me that I am simultaneously treading on fragile ground (why is everyone so overwhelmingly friendly?) and awed with a sense of homecoming (memories of la guinee!)
I am relieved and grateful to have found a home among artists again. The practice stage is achingly similar to Tarmac, where the neighbors formed an impromtu audience. The drum has a way of calling in the children who perform acrobatics on the small tiled side area. They slide across with their smooth soled shoes wrapped around their hands and somersault the length of the stoop. There is always a group gathered together imitating the steps and getting in their own practice session.
By the entrance way, other passersby gather. Women holding babies, secondary students wearing school uniforms and backpacks, and random guys from the street step in to get a glimpse of show. Music is powerful and just as it brings us all together, it has the ability to send me off to my memories. Their version of Sinte sent me time traveling back to NY days with Pam and Mimo, my first teachers.
I'm studying a little bit of drum, a little bit of dance and a lot of technique on perfecting my stage presence. I have been forever faced with the challenge of solo dancing and it looks like this is finally the time to conquer that beast.
Along with my memories of Guinea, comes that same familiar sense of wanting to capture everything with image and poetry. I want to paint the lead dancer, with her impish smile and extra long eyelashes. I try hard to memorize her bone structure without staring too obviously. I imagine the brush strokes of her hair and the smoothness of her neck. She exudes that energy I can only describe as African....an energy that is slow, hot and sultry as she lounges around the studio waiting for practice to begin. It is an energy that transforms in an instant to vibrant, light and inviting the moment she begins to dance. There is poetry in her interactions with the drummers, the other dancers, the audience. I am torn between wanting to step into the shadows and follow the muse and wanting to jump on stage and become part of the inspiration.
One of the male dancers reminds me of a friend from waaaay back. The first few classes were hard to make the separation. One half of my mind kept insisting it was him while the side of reason kept reminding me I was in a different place and time and it could not be him, or his little brother or cousin or anyone else I know.
Since we have danced together a few times now, his features have become more a representation of his own personality and less of my memories (it helps that he hasn't broken out into sabar, that might make it impossible for my rational mind to remain in control. Two dopplegangers if ever they existed.) He has the energy of youth with an always present smile and beautiful dreads. When he coaches me, he is the one to give the most advice about my stage presence. "Eyes up, big smile, and dance with your head. Throw your hair around," he advises. I just laugh at him. It is easy to dance and smile with this kind of encouragement.
I feel wonderful dancing again. It is like new life. When we leave, we travel together down the dirt pathway, over half-formed walls, through a dusty soccer pitch, past old men carving masks and a group of women frying plantains. Children run in groups, jumping, skipping, singing. Many of them had spent time watching the rehearsal and are still filled with the energy of the drums. It is glorious to feel at home again. A little bit of luck for me.
It also happens to be the name of the dance troupe I am currently studying with. I've only gone to a few rehearsals, but it appears promising. Everyone has been so welcoming to me that I am simultaneously treading on fragile ground (why is everyone so overwhelmingly friendly?) and awed with a sense of homecoming (memories of la guinee!)
I am relieved and grateful to have found a home among artists again. The practice stage is achingly similar to Tarmac, where the neighbors formed an impromtu audience. The drum has a way of calling in the children who perform acrobatics on the small tiled side area. They slide across with their smooth soled shoes wrapped around their hands and somersault the length of the stoop. There is always a group gathered together imitating the steps and getting in their own practice session.
By the entrance way, other passersby gather. Women holding babies, secondary students wearing school uniforms and backpacks, and random guys from the street step in to get a glimpse of show. Music is powerful and just as it brings us all together, it has the ability to send me off to my memories. Their version of Sinte sent me time traveling back to NY days with Pam and Mimo, my first teachers.
I'm studying a little bit of drum, a little bit of dance and a lot of technique on perfecting my stage presence. I have been forever faced with the challenge of solo dancing and it looks like this is finally the time to conquer that beast.
Along with my memories of Guinea, comes that same familiar sense of wanting to capture everything with image and poetry. I want to paint the lead dancer, with her impish smile and extra long eyelashes. I try hard to memorize her bone structure without staring too obviously. I imagine the brush strokes of her hair and the smoothness of her neck. She exudes that energy I can only describe as African....an energy that is slow, hot and sultry as she lounges around the studio waiting for practice to begin. It is an energy that transforms in an instant to vibrant, light and inviting the moment she begins to dance. There is poetry in her interactions with the drummers, the other dancers, the audience. I am torn between wanting to step into the shadows and follow the muse and wanting to jump on stage and become part of the inspiration.
One of the male dancers reminds me of a friend from waaaay back. The first few classes were hard to make the separation. One half of my mind kept insisting it was him while the side of reason kept reminding me I was in a different place and time and it could not be him, or his little brother or cousin or anyone else I know.
Since we have danced together a few times now, his features have become more a representation of his own personality and less of my memories (it helps that he hasn't broken out into sabar, that might make it impossible for my rational mind to remain in control. Two dopplegangers if ever they existed.) He has the energy of youth with an always present smile and beautiful dreads. When he coaches me, he is the one to give the most advice about my stage presence. "Eyes up, big smile, and dance with your head. Throw your hair around," he advises. I just laugh at him. It is easy to dance and smile with this kind of encouragement.
I feel wonderful dancing again. It is like new life. When we leave, we travel together down the dirt pathway, over half-formed walls, through a dusty soccer pitch, past old men carving masks and a group of women frying plantains. Children run in groups, jumping, skipping, singing. Many of them had spent time watching the rehearsal and are still filled with the energy of the drums. It is glorious to feel at home again. A little bit of luck for me.
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