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