There is a new power-sharing government in the land and Harare has a new Mayor. Francesca is hopeful because he actually paid a visit to the orphanage. Held a baby even. Meanwhile Joseph is laughing and Jacob is studying and the greens are being prepared for supper and life goes on.
I wrote this a month ago on my birthday. Have been trying to fix it ever since. I give up. Here it is. My first attempt to deal with all of those long-ago notes.
Today’s my birthday. I’ve daringly posted my real age on facebook so we don’t have to go into that here. How this relates to travel since this is a travel blog? The new passport that would allow me to begin my journeys to every-country-in-the-world-before-I-die arrived in the mail 25 years, 335 days and about 5 hours ago. I actually did not know that every country was my goal at the time—that I could possibly do that did not occur to me until a few years ago. When I first said it out loud it was a joke. I next said those words out loud was because I liked the sound of them but they were still accompanied by a skeptical chuckle. Then I said it again, “I’m going to every country in the world before I die,” after counting countries and dividing by likely lifespan. And meant it. Today I’m repeating my travel mantra because, like New Years Eves, birthdays are good times to renew resolutions, and to review where you’ve been.
Getting there is half the fun? I’ve always had a travel life—and a family and work and periods of political junkiness and baked a lot of cakes. But that is all in the memoir…this is THE BLOG. This every country phase began in July 1884. My best friend and I went to Europe…my first visit, her second. True, I had lived in the Philippines and traveled to Mexico and Canada but this was the beginning of something big, new and scary. Also addictive, expensive and life altering. Whatever it was…one hot summer day we were off! Sue and I were youngish, single, pretty, and a little wild, neither of us apparently destined for wifedom, although we certainly loved our children and figured they made our somewhat brief marriages worthwhile.
We had planned, or rather I had planned, since Sue was not a person of lists and schedules—sometimes the planning turns out to be more satisfying than the actual trip but that was not the case here. Pre-Google, pre-email it was complicated but good challenging fun, with large paper maps spread out on the kitchen table, maybe several travel guides, faxes, phone calls, letters even. And budgets. Always the budgets. How many francs, pounds, lire, guilders per dollar—getting outdated currency exchange figures from a three year old travel guide or stopping by your bank for the current rates. Figuring out how much cash to take. Or Travelers checks. It was also a world without debit cards and cash machines. Amazing that we ever left our own shores. I look at my budget notes and figuratively weep—let’s see, the three nights in Paris were going to come to about $90 although the four nights in London would add up to $272. It didn’t quite turn out that way of course because Sue took one look at the claustrophobic garret I had booked in Paris, declared it a fire hazard and we immediately struck out to find a more standard (and pricier) hotel. But I digress. The hours of planning for the coming trip—for me—turned into dreaming about the next…and the next…. In my old notes, even as this itinerary (London, Brighton, up to Folkstone or Dover to catch the Hovercraft to Boulagne, France, down to Rouen for a night, then into Paris and back to Dallas and Albuquerque) is being is being developed there are already references to the following year’s proposed journey: Norway, Ireland, South of France and Italy….
Finally it’s time. We’re off! First I fly to Dallas, borrowing outfits and maybe a suitcase from Sue who must have had a better selection of both. For two days we giggled, smoked endless cigarettes with our endless cups of coffee and ironed (that was then) packed and repacked. Then Piedmont Airlines to New York. We had both been briefly to The City before but not often so we took a cab from Kennedy into the City for the few hours between flights, leaving our way-too-many-bags in a locker at the airport. Do you remember when that was possible! Those days of innocence—when lockers weren’t necessarily bomb containers—when the terrorists were still mostly someplace else—like Beirut for example where the Marine barracks had been bombed just a few months earlier. (Although while we were happily strolling the streets of a mostly gun-free Europe, an American “survivalist” would murder 22 people in a San Diego McDonald’s.)
Sue and I spent a glorious sunny afternoon in Sheep Meadow where humans had long since replaced the sheep that Robert Moses moved to safer environs in the 30’s, afraid depression-hungry New Yorkers would munch them for lunch. That NY sun and those pretty sunbathers seemed so much more elegant than ordinary people lying about on the Albuquerque or Dallas grass. We enjoyed a perfect Central Park hot dog—dared a wine at the St. Moritz on Central Park South–I say dared because it seemed such an impossibly sophisticated thing to do. I had already traveled more than most Americans I suppose but never in what I considered the rarified circles of the travel elite–Manhattan, London, Paris. How did one act, speak, comport oneself in such urbane enclaves. At dusk, we headed back to the airport. Tired, maybe a little sweaty and rumpled, but we had already experienced one new world…how much better could it get!
Iceland. Icelandair is memorable because…it stopped in Newfoundland; the seating was as cramped as today’s steerage class (which was unusual then); the meal was delicious, eaten with silverware and accompanied by unlimited wine. The ‘stewardesses’ were perky. And smoking was the norm, oh yeah, clouds of smoke, we could hardly wait until the no smoking sign went off. Hard to separate good-fond from bad-fond memories isn’t it? And then Iceland of the endless summer day and woolly sweaters and dinner of white and buttery codfish and white and a creamy yogurt-like dessert called skyr (courtesy of the Vikings—who lived in snow-white landscapes, produced rosy-white babies, ate creamy-white food and who may have been forced to plunder, slash and burn just to add green and red to their sensory palettes.) I want to go back and drive Iceland’s rim on a trip like the one Mark Sundeen described in the June 18, 2006 NY Times Travel section, the “…830-mile Ring Road, where the scenery shifts from glaciers to geothermal pools to re-enactors dressed in Viking garb, all of it under the midnight sun.” A road that “…feels like someone put the American West in a blender: California’s poetic central coast, the Nevada desert’s barren expanses, Alaska’s glaciers and Yellowstone’s geysers.” I half regret having a goal like every country which means I do not have time to return to or linger in too many favorite places. However Iceland can be a stop once again, this time on my way to Greenland as soon as it is recognized by the ultimate authority, Lonely Planet, as a separate country.
I know, I know…Iceland is now the land of bankruptcy and the cause of very cranky airline passengers. I still want to spend a long long dark New Year’s Day there with my fellow Scandinavians drinking too much and eating white food.
England. Coming into Heathrow. One of those heart-in-mouth moments. I have no idea why setting foot on European soil (well okay, a British runway) meant so much to me. Didn’t feel that way upon landing at Clark AFB on Luzon or Mexico City…but political heritage does matter and all those history classes crediting my American birth to English parentage have had an effect… ‘Mom, Dad, I’m home’… Here’s what I wrote in my travel notebook:
London looks small and low and green—after New York and our own southwestern terrain. Really long escalators. Short cab ride to Flemings Hotel on Half Moon Street. Check in. Walk up Picadilly, Leicester Square, Picadilly Square, finally Trafalgar Square. Scone on way. Not sunny not cloudy. Trafalgar Square – Pigeons, lions, pale people everywhere. Around corner to Sherlock Holmes pub, meet New Zealandars and Dave. Dave takes us to other Navy Pub, we walk back, eat more scones. To bed. Already love London. It’s the 16th of July, 1984 when I am actually doing this stuff. On the 17th we walk to Parliament, by the Queen Mother’s House, Guard pinches Sue, Henry Moore’s, Changing of the Guard, millions of tourists. Pubs close 3 – 5 pm. Boat ride up Thames to the Tower of London and Tower Bridge. Boat ride not so great, grubby and touristy (in our minds we apparently were non-touristy tourists). Walking back among government buildings, can’t get to 10 Downing but look at it from short distance. Margaret Thatcher’s just stopped at gate and chatted with tourists. Guard doesn’t like Thatcher. On to Sherlock Holmes. Almost don’t go. Do, relieved the guys we’ve met aren’t there. Find an outside table. The boys arrive and invite us to the Royal Tournament. We go. Princess Anne is in the house.
I have the souvenir book to prove I was there.
And memories of a late boozy night with the new friends!
Those are the notes I took on this trip. Not good. No atmosphere. Just the facts ma’am. Let me share a couple of things I remember vividly from that visit using adjectives this time. Real scones are things of wonder. Flaky yet moist with smooth and tart-sweet rosy-red strawberry jam and real clotted cream—from real cows, British cows who’ve been grazing happily in a Turner landscape while listening to the cultured accents of lords and ladies and fox-hunting squires of the realm who lope by on fast and glossy steeds! You can tell London scones are very special. Warm grey weather, my favorite. Except the day we visited Stonehenge. Cold grey weather. Next we visit Brighton where the seaside is civilized with elderly Brits in sweaters and sensible shoes decorously sunning themselves, and blonde and crazy Scandinavians swimming on the naked wild side. We had salty, creamy kippers in white gravy for breakfast and went to the Royal Pavilion, a grand place to tour because…well because it is grand and one should tour things on trips. You will always feel you did a good and necessary thing by going to see restored palaces whether this one or Versailles or another. They have brilliant colors and proper art and flocked wallpaper. However they really look uncomfortable. Such high ceilings. And those endless sculptures and mirrors. All neat. No books scattered about, newspapers in a pile. Coffee cups forgotten on a corner table. Do you suppose the royals lived that neatly? Well no, actually. They were mostly unbathed and all greasy from the roasted leg they gnawed at dinner and sweaty from the after-dinner orgies. All about was a profusion of guns, crossbows, dogs and bloody pheasants to keep Court artists busily painting and future museum walls well populated. .
France. No notes from Paris. A few unfaded memories must suffice. The ferry was almost a great travel moment. I feel sorry for today’s Chunnel riders missing the history of a Channel crossing: The wind’s in our hair and “… bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover” in our eyes and ears, the beaches of Normandy nearby.
The outstanding French adventure was—THE DUCK. In my zealous planning efforts I included one elegant dinner—to be in Rouen and consist of the famous duck dish, Canard a la Rouennaise (Duck in blood sauce). We wrote for reservations at a famous restaurant on the Market Square where Joan of Arc was burned at the stake—planning well we thought for the gourmet dinner of the trip. In olden times, in Europe on $25 a Day there were few details, only that the dish was duck. An old recipe. A very famous, very old recipe.
We dress up. We plan to NOT act like American tourists. We order Canard a la Rouennaise. A nice wine. Of course we stumble through the wine order but what we get tastes nice. Obviously by now we’re easily identified as American tourists from some outback like… well… perhaps Texas and New Mexico. I remember little about the meal in fact—except the duck. Large full plates are put down in front of us. Covered with slices of something outlined under dense black and grainy gravy exuding the aroma of fresh chicken (duck?) manure. Honestly. We stare helplessly at the disaster in front of us for some time, trying to look neither confused nor disgusted. I scrape away a corner of the nearly-impenetrable dark glop but the pitiful little pink slices look raw and my determination to take at least one bite disappears. By now we notice sideways glances and small smirks from the few other diners who look to be townspeople—but they don’t laugh out loud. The French can be kind after all. In the end, we ate the crème brulee, paid the highest meal ticket of the trip and made what we hoped was a casual yet dignified exit. I think we ate that bag of smashed stale cookies from one of our suitcases that night.
About Canard à la rouennaise or duck in blood sauce, described as
“…an antique, spectacular, barbaric and sophisticated recipe you need to see at least once in your life. … it’s the most spectacular recipe of the classical French repertoire. [For which you need]…a Presse à Canard, a duck crusher for which you would pay thousands of dollars if only you could find one for sale.” (Duck Tour d’Argent at the FXCuisine.com website). This is a great website with all of the gory details in large color photos.
Also: Rouennaise Duckling BASIC RULES (now from canardiers.asso.fr)
Today many restaurants in Rouen, in Normandy, but also in many countries serve the Rouennaise Duckling sometimes with variants but respecting the following basic rules:
A better choice would have been to travel with Julia and Paul:
Extract from the book “My Life in France” by Julia Child. Rouen is famous for its duck dishes, but after consulting the waiter Paul decided to order sole meunière. It arrived whole : a large, flat Dover sole that was perfectly browned in a sputtering butter sauce with a sprinkling of chopped parsley on top. The waiter carefully placed the platter in front of us, stepped back, and said : Bon appétit! I closed my eyes and inhaled the rising perfume. Then I lifted a forkful of fish in my mouth, took a bite, and chewed slowly. The flesh of the sole was delicate, with a light but distinct taste of the ocean that blended marvelously with the browned butter. I chewed slowly and swallowed. It was a morsel of perfection. … Along with our meal, we happily downed a whole bottle of Pouilly-Fumé, a wonderful crisp white wine from the Loire Valley. Another revelation! Then came salade verte laced with lightly acidic vinaigrette. And I tasted my first real baguette _ a crisp brown crust giving way to a slightly chewy, rather loosely textured pale yellow interior, with a faint reminder of wheat and yeast in the odor and taste. Yum! We followed our meal with leisurly dessert of fromage blanc, and ended with a strong, dark café filtre. The waiter placed before us a cup topped with a metal canister, which contained coffee grounds and boiling water. With some urging by us impatient drinkers, the water eventually filtred down into the cup below. It was fun, and it provided a distinctive dark brew.
I loved Paris and have ever after—visiting many times for the dance, the walk along the river to the Eiffel Tower, the baguettes, the unexplainable sense of joie de vivre the city inspires, but mostly just for being in the streets and at the sidewalk cafes. Of course sidewalk cafés were best with a café au lait and a cigarette but over the years I’ve shed my bad habits and now I settle for a healthful glass of red wine.
Somewhere in this part of our adventure Sue gets quite mad at me because I encourage a couple of inappropriate guys to pick us up. Next day I go alone to Versailles with a hangover. Later we shop on the Champs-Élysées, buying matching cotton casual things in different colors, mine was pink, Sue’s yellow and I still have mine. It has paint stains and is torn but I cannot bring myself to simply put it in the garbage. That and a few photos comprise proof. I was. There. Then. Sue left her pricey French perfume on a bench as we strolled at dusk toward the Tuilleries. Sue, on all my Paris strolls, I stop somewhere along that lovely walk for a Crepe Marron, sit on a bench among the big shady elms and look for your perfume. But I am sorry about those guys. Just think they’re old men now!
My notes only pick up again on August 4th. They say my ex-husband visited and he and my son go for an adventure to Guam. And that my ex-boyfriend was here and went back to Portland. And that I went to Mexico as a cultural liaison. No question, ex-travel adventures have a much longer shelf life than ex-people-in-your-life.
Skip to 2009 and Patricia’s 16th birthday.
In spring 2009, I traveled to the Middle East, Zimbabwe and Uganda. The next 2 blogs will offer short pieces about two aspects of the Zimbabwe experience. By then I should have my approach to the origins of Every Country in the World Before I Die figured out—at least to the extent I’m not embarrassed to share what I’ve written.
Art Conquers All…..
The lawn before the stage is crowded with young families in all the lovely shades of Africa and a row of elegant elderly white ladies evocative of colonial Rhodesia!
All are enjoying the risqué jokes, roping and knife-throwing directed at two men gamely providing comic foil for the stars’ suggestive remarks. I am at the Harare International Festival of the Arts (HIFA) and it is fun…and art-filled…and a respite from the worries of life under Mugabe.
Harare, Zimbabwe is not high on most travel wish lists what with Mugabe, typhoid and farm-confiscations. But think again! HIFA is a brilliantly-implemented festival managing to combine a richly programmed cultural celebration with a sense of community in a city that needs all it can get of both. The festival fills Harare Gardens, a place of luxurious shade trees, meandering paths, the spicy-sweet smells of the thatched-roof food stalls, idiosyncratic art installations and baskets, beads and wood carvings of traditional Zimbabwe side by side with hip fashion accessories in the green, yellow, red and black of the flag. Lively stages showcase artists from around the world. Professional dancers, actors and musicians mingle with comedians, pop stars and wannabe’s. Festivities begin early, end late. Audiences are local and international, black and white, young and old, rich and almost-poor. HIFA is a celebration where you take a blanket and stay awhile, snack on hot dogs and sweet potato biscuits, drink South African wine and Zimbabwean beer, let the kids play in the grass and ogle the clowns. It is all reminiscent of a county fair with all manner of arts instead of giant squash and Ferris wheels.
So…stop with the cell phone and laptop. Let the laid-back ambience of Harare Gardens take over. With mid-morning coffee sample a fine homemade lemon sponge cake. Meander over to traditional dance and drumming, then on to a folk musician/storyteller making gentle fun of the “the old man” (which is how Zimbabweans refer to Mugabe when they can’t use more direct language). Later a South African fusion of stand-up comedy and political theater will offer a much harsher assessment. Enjoy a wine and meat pie from an outdoor tent-café with white tablecloths and candles and then, best of all, an evening of drama in the Standard Theater. The venue is basic but the performances more than compensate. I see Disconnection (family disintegration and immigration in contemporary Zimbabwe); The Crossing (braving the Limpopo River for survival in South Africa) and Allegations (an exploration of the violence that overtook both white farmers and black rural workers during the confiscations). Here is a real intersection of art and politics with Zimbabwean theater stubbornly planted in the middle of this dangerous and noisy junction. And this is one crossroads Mugabe’s thugs just can’t keep closed.
Art festival aficionados in general, and especially those who believe that art is the most effective way to speak truth to power, should put HIFA on their calendar but keep checking the newspapers to be aware of Mugabe’s latest shenanigans.
My fascination with South Africa began a few years ago. And through the artists I met from the region and a visit to Mozambique I found myself increasingly curious about the entire southern region and its history. The continent of Africa has engaged my interest since I was a child…and led me on…one trip to another, one country to the next and back. Always though, confusion about how one country related to another and why similarities abounded or barely existed made my brief snapshots of this or that African city seem unsatisfactory.
Therefore, given my growing fascination with, and the American connection to, South Africa and what was one of the biggest global stories of the last century—the end of apartheid, I decided to pick the southern region of the continent to study in a little more depth. By that I do mean just a little more depth. All I hope to do given my age, modest financial means and limited tolerance for serious scholarship is read some books about these places—serious to light history, biographies, fiction and, my favorite, murder/police/detective inspired fiction—and make as many journeys to and about these countries as time and money permit.
The South of the Continent of Africa. The south of Africa as defined by the Southern African Development Corporation (SADC) provided a regional outline within which I could explore. It is comprised of Angola, Botswana, the Democratic Republic of Congo, Lesotho, Madagascar, Malawi, Mauritius, Mozambique, Namibia, Seychelles, South Africa, Swaziland, United Republic of Tanzania, Zambia and Zimbabwe. My purposeful dance explorations with some more haphazard passport stamp-seeking sidesteps have taken me to the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) when it was Zaire (my very first trip to the continent), then Madagascar (where I served as a dance competition panelist), Swaziland (by market bus from Maputo), Namibia and Botswana (no elephants, just passport stamps and extra dance), South Africa (two Dance Umbrella Festivals, Cape Town and bus trips through the most wide-open country I’ve ever experience—and I’m from the American Midwest and Southwest!) and Mozambique (which this post is mostly about).
Meanwhile other trips to other parts of Africa have taken place but in the south I have a mission—to know each of these countries a little more than just passing through…just a little more. In another part of Every-Country-in-the-World-Before I Die I will re-visit my earlier trips to the DRC, Burkina Faso, Cameroon, Guinea, Cote d’Ivoire, Senegal, Egypt, Uganda, Tunisia and Morocco, but this chapter/post will stick to the south and mostly to Mozambique.
Travel NOTE: Do you find yourself looking for connections with home when you visit other places and then slightly disappointed when you find them. We travel to experience what’s different, exotic, unusual—and just around the corner is a Kentucky Fried Chicken. On the other hand, when you go just below the surface in places with real parallels to the U.S., it can be the most fascinating journey of all. Like South Africa for instance. Mozambique is much more foreign—language plays a big role but so does the relationships of race, colonial culture, economy, types of wars fought (for example–Civil, Guerrilla, Proxy, Insurgency—all of which SA and Mozambique have engaged in but quite differently). Before going into more depth about a 2008 trip to Mozambique here’s the South African thought for the day. And I do think about SA a lot because I’ve just returned from there and it is such a unique world place.
South Africa and the American South: The Drama of Place. Is there a study about the shared characteristic of southern places—of the southern part of countries and continents? Are these places always full of drama—battles that end with heroes, wars that change the very nature of places and people, characters too strange or evil or magnificent to be fictional but who inspire great writers, mythologies shaped by the lushness of magnolia and moss-wrapped plantations or the stark isolation of the grassy veldt. The American south reminds me of South Africa. They seem to share a certain melancholy and mystery and murder and the energy of the downtrodden, the farmer, the radical freedom fighter, the peculiar (to us northerners) food and odd expressions and, above all, the in-your-face history.
Okay maybe the simile is not perfect butI like it nonetheless. South Africa seems somehow more culturally layered, richer in both nuance and bloody reality than the whole of the U.S. More like our southland. But now for South Africa’s next door neighbor–Mozambique
It is 44 hours from 13th Street NW in Albuquerque, New Mexico to the Avenida 25 de Setembro in Maputo, Mozambique— Albuquerque to Houston to London to Johannesburg to Maputo. My colleague, Bryn Naranjo, VSA’s dance teacher, and I had already judged this to be a good journey by the time the first lunch was over. Prawns like small lobsters, fat and rosy, only minutes from their happy ocean home, partnered with bottles of chilly golden Laurentina, the prized beer of Africa, made right here in Mozambique; balmy Indian Ocean breezes gently soothing tired eyes and stiff limbs as the travelers fell in love with the place and the people and, soon, the artists.
We were met by two of our favorite dance artists, Panaibra Gabriel Canda from Maputo and Boyzie Cekwana from South Africa who is here working with Panaibra on a very special dance project. Bryn and I would spend the next two weeks working with them, me primarily exploring the contemporary dance and theater life of the city and Bryn teaching with Panaibra and Boyzie. It was a rare opportunity to engage with a city and its contemporary culture.
The Country of Mozambique lies in the southeast of the African continent bordering on South Africa and Swaziland in the south, Zimbabwe to the west and Zambia and Malawi to the northeast. The country fronts the Indian Ocean for over 1500 miles. That first day’s lunch was on one of many beaches which are in the process of being turned into potential tourist destinations. Temperatures range from hot to mild; in fact it was perfect spring weather during our October visit. Wildlife native to Mozambique was mostly killed and eaten during the war but now, especially in Gorongosa National Park and the Elephant Reserve, a regeneration is taking place and some of the African Big 5 (lion, leopard, elephant, rhino and cape buffalo) are reappearing. I should confess that in all my African trips I’ve seen one each of a back-country river-bathing hippo and lonely baboon loping along the roadside on Highway 3 from Cape Town to Windhoek. This trip I saw many goats on my way to Swaziland and that’s pretty much it. But remember, I live by the Albuquerque Zoo so I’m okay with that. I travel for sightings of dance not elephants.
History. About 2000 years ago, as the Sahara Desert expanded, the Bantu-speaking tribes of the north displaced the original hunter-gatherers of the south. As time passed alliances were made with first the Arab traders and then the Portuguese who arrived in the early 1500’s and who were to become the colonizers of Mozambique. The drive for independence across the continent reached into Mozambique as well and, in 1962, Frelimo (Mozambican Liberation Front) was formed with the specific intent of ending Portuguese rule. After years of struggle, independence was finally won in 1975 under the leadership of Samora Machel, a much honored figure in Mozambican history. Frelimo received the majority of support during the war for independence from the Soviet Union, China and the eastern bloc in general, which gave western and white-dominated African governments all the excuse they needed for their ongoing attempts to destabilize the party/government.
I try to read several books about the places to which I’m traveling; in this case only two and one of those was a Globetrotter Travel Guide Mozambique (2008). The other, A Complicated War: The Harrowing of Mozambique (1992) by William Finnegan, was very helpful in providing some insight into the years and the war that almost destroyed Mozambique. Economic schemes did not work as planned, natural disasters were many and the war between Frelimo and Renamo appeared to be never ending. Renamo, described variously as a rebel army or “armed bandits” (or freedom fighters in Ian Smith’s Rhodesia and Reagan’s Washington), was primarily a tool of the South African white government—this was the Afrikaners Proxy War. In 1984, the Nkomati Accord was signed; its intent to end Frelimo’s support for the ANC and South Africa’s support for Renamo. Mozambique kept their end of the bargain, South Africa did not and the fighting continued until an effective 1992 cease-fire agreement, with the first democratic election held in 1994. Frelimo’s candidate, Joaquim Chissano, won just as Nelson Mandela was elected president next door in South Africa. It was a very invigorating and promising time in both countries; how much of that promise has materialized is a contemporary debate in both countries.
Mozambique remains a complex country but now the battling parties of Frelimo and Renamo compete for village votes instead of victims. In the distant past, South Africa’s apartheid government interfered constantly in the country’s political life, weaving a web of bloody deception. Now Graca Machel (Samora Machel’s widow) is married to South Africa’s amiably aging hero, Nelson Mandela; they can be seen holding hands at press gatherings—hopefully the sign of a new age in southern Africa.
Maputo. Maputo appears to be a very livable city reflecting its Portuguese heritage architecturally and the war years in the actual condition of many buildings. In the past the European-built center cities were referred to as the ‘cement towns’ and the outlying districts where most Mozambiqueans lived as the ‘reed towns.’ As I was primarily in ‘cement town’ I obviously did not see all of the urban environment. We did drive around the city, and while Mozambique is not economically strong, the impression of Maputo is of a generally attractive, vigorous and workable city. Good restaurants abound, most automobiles—and there are many—appear to be in drivable condition, people are busy, the weather is perfect and the prices Albuquerque-level. The Hotel Tivoli where Bryn and I stayed is quite perfectly located, between a big breezy friendly bakery/coffee house, Teatro Avenida, the city’s theatre for contemporary theater and dance, and Feria Popular, a sort of gated but casually friendly restaurant community with all of the pizza, piri piri and sweet and sour pork one could ever want.
The Artists. We were hosted by Panaibra Gabriel Canda of CulturArte; Maria Helena Pinto, choreographer and dancer; and Manuela Soeiro, theater manager and theatrical producer. They represent the primary contingent of contemporary arts leaders in the city. Boyzie Cekwana from South Africa, a choreographer/dancer and southern Africa arts activist was also present in Maputo as a teacher and co-creator of a new work with Panaibra. We ate almost every meal with these new and old friends and each was an opportunity for lengthy animated discussion of contemporary African arts, politics and everyday life. For me what emerged from the many evenings’ brimming platters of ideas, was a tasty morsel called JourneysAFRICA—both as a programming concept for Global DanceFest and as a travel focus for me.
Panaibra, Maria Helena and Manuela took such good care of us, from long drives and long talks, cultural events to a theater lobby dinner with Manuela. Here is a little more information about them.
Panaibra Gabriel Canda, the primary host and organizer of the trip to Mozambique, is a community arts leader, choreographer, and the director of a CulturArte, an organization supporting his dancework as well as training programs for young people, artists with disabilities and other community dancers. Panaibra began his dance career in traditional dance but, dissatisfied with the lack of creative freedom and exposed to contemporary European dance, he soon moved on. CulturArte was created to provide a structure within which funds could be raised and an educational program developed. He has been quite successful although money is so very scarce in this economically strapped country.
Bryn worked every day with Panaibra and Boyzie on the Independence Project. The project involved local dancers and non-dancers, with and without disabilities in extensive training and then a final work to be choreographed by Panaibra and his dancers.
I am pleased to report that the Independence Project as a dance was presented at Global DanceFest 2009 and was a major success. It is one of the most powerful dance pieces I have seen, and almost the first that included dancers with disabilities in a way that didn’t make the work all about disability.
Maria-Helena Pinto, the other dance leader in Maputo is, in some ways, the embodiment of this country with a Mozambiquean mother, jailed in South Africa for much of Pinto’s childhood, and a Portuguese father she did not know until she was an adult. Pinto was partially raised by a grandmother who constantly reminded her that she came from a strong tribe and could survive anything, skills she needed when her ex-husband, father of her child and fellow dancer/choreographer was shot and killed by the police in 2007. Pinto has studied dance in Cuba and is presently completing a doctorate in Paris. She has plans to build her own art center on land she has purchased in a Maputo suburb.
Manuela Soeiro is the founder and director of both the venue, Teatro Avenida, and the theater company, Mutumbela Gogo, the only professional theater company in Mozambique. Soeiro is a woman of great determination who was handed Teatro Avenida by the government right after independence with no expectations that she would actually make it work—but she did! From complete shambles, Teatro Avenida has grown to become the primary venue for contemporary artists in the city. In 1986, Soeiro founded Mutumbela Gogo which has hosted a variety of internationally known writers, playwrights and directors including Henning Mankell, Sweden’s favorite detective novelist (and of course, one of mine) who is very involved with the group, and Mia Couto, Mozambique’s most famous and best-loved writer/poet.
Evenings Bryn and I were treated to the everyday cultural life of Maputo. As in most cities most of the time, it was comprised of the art made and shared by friends and neighbors and the art offered through cultural exchanges, school and clubs and associations. A rich and varied smorgasbord for the residents of Maputo. Boyzie, Panaibra, Bryn and I in some combination went to a number of community events including a play and video presentation of a South African photography project in a downtown ‘art alley’ and a student recital of Maria Helena’s dance school. There were evenings of film at Teatro Avenida including a German film dubbed in Portuguese and also signed [the story included a deaf person] and another rather-pointedly anti-American Spanish film about Cuba hosted by Spanish and Cuban cultural organizations. I did get to see a community performance by the national dance company which David Abilo (director) had explained to me earlier was the part of the work they were doing to keep the company solvent. It apparently was developed as a social message (and sales pitch) for a drug company. I visited the small but quite excellent contemporary art museum and regret that I didn’t try to find out a little more about the visual art world. The last night we were there Panaibra took us to one of his favorite restaurants which was celebrating …. An October German beer fest! Final night in Maputo, Mozambique. Polka music and bratwurst… the beer however was Laurentina!
Swaziland. My passport-stamp adventure for this trip was a day’s outing to Mbabane, Swaziland. According to Google Mbabane is 93 miles from Maputo but it can take some time. I took the regular old market bus to make sure it was an authentic experience—and to check out my travel stamina levels! The market-to-market buses (medium-size vans) line up early in a bumpy and dusty parking lot just off 25 de Septembro. It took close to three hours for the van to fill–coming and going, 10 hours actually moving (well, except for the hours spent at the border crossing and being stopped by the police) and then two hours at the Mbabane Mall. Where I had a BLT and a latte, bought some books in English and made sure my bladder was absolutely empty for the return journey.
It was a great trip. Outside of the mall, no one spoke English but everyone was kind and helpful with directional gestures when I was momentarily lost in Mbabane. TRAVEL TIP: It is essential NOT to spend every moment of a trip with a travel companion. You must experience some things through your own eyes only!
A Small World Story. Shortly before leaving Maputo, I was walking back to the hotel along the very crowded and hectic Karl Marx Boulevard from a meeting at the U.S. Consulate. A woman across the busy street started shouting and motioning for me to come across to where she stood with a child in a stroller. With great curiosity, I crossed. The woman turned out to be one of the kind people on the market bus to Swaziland who had helped me with directions. She just wanted to say hello and how are you. ‘It IS a small (and generally friendly) world after all!’
The Countdown Diary
March 10th It is only Wednesday and I don’t leave until Sunday evening. However I left home on February 11th so it now one month away. Mentally I’m starting home.
March 11th Now it is Thursday afternoon and my colleagues and I have just had our last lunch together at the Coffee Bean…biltong salad and pumpkin/cashew/goat cheese risotto. I know it’s time to go home when I’d rather have a bowl of Cheerios. Boyzie’s performance coming up.
March 12th Friday am. Sleeping way too well. Need a little stress back in my life. Boyzie’s piece last night. I love it…a distinctive, impossible to forget work of political dance-theater. Some meetings today and a last “talk” with Adrienne Sichel. We still have four performances to go…Actually more because one’s a triple bill but the main one’s I came for are over. There is still the surprise possibility of course.
Dear Diary. Can I go home now? It’s Friday night and I just saw a performance that is not at all to my taste nor was the sausage and potato chips and beer for dinner. However I had an interesting chat with Laurent Clavel, the Director of the French Institute here, a passionate advocate for South African Dance and an equally excellent example of France’s ongoing support for contemporary dance. While it hasn’t been as vigorous under Sarkozy it still makes the US look bad bad bad in the arena of art support.
March 13th Saturday Morning and a bad thing happened. Jodee and I met Adrienne Sichel in a coffeehouse bookstore and now I have more books. I need a 10-step program that deals with addictive book-purchasing behavior especially when you’re about to travel home with an already full-suitcase. But I am so enamored of Southern African literature of all sorts that I cannot stop myself. Obviously anything can be ordered on-line but you can’t easily know about this work unless you browse in an actual bookstore.
Yesterday, someone shared a FB post about how Starbucks is allowing those brave gun-toting Americans in for a power shot of something while carrying/packing heat/feeling manly. What’s Flying Stars position on pistol-packing coffee drinkers? Or is it time to switch to tea? The American gun culture—what a shameful national attribute. An African refugee told me years ago that her Minneapolis neighborhood scared her so much because of the constant sound of gunshots at night. At home, she said, “Only the police and the bad guys have guns.” Think about that comment. In the US I’ll wager most of the deaths by gun are committed by angry insecure psychotic-or-otherwise ordinary citizens who have every right by our standards to own a firearm. Stop.
Saturday Night: One last South African rain for me last night. Now home to the desert and spring dust blows. Engaged with a performing group from Reunion Island last night. Piece based on idea of dancers selling dance like prostitutes sell sex. Usually this company actually does the “performance” in the streets but festival organizers felt like that might be dangerous so they were given a way too comfortable lounge in the rather genteel atmosphere of upstairs at the Market Theater. Only ten “clients” participate per hour. A bit too low-key perhaps for anyone to relate dancers to prostitutes and the typical contemporary dance environment to a stripper/den/bar/house of ill-repute!
Stimulating talk with Boyzie, catching up on his projects. Influx Controls: I Wanna be, wanna be is now slated for several European festivals and the second piece in the trilogy: On the 12th night of never, I will not be held black will premier in Paris in early May. Then that will tour as well, in some cases with Part 1 and in other cases on its own. The 12th night includes Boyzie and his nephew with the addition of singer he has talked about previously. Wish there was a way to tour both together. I mentioned it and of course it is probably logistically possible but financially is surely another question. I need a quick trip to Paris to see the new piece. Oh stop it Marjorie…you need to stay home and write grants so you have money to pay the artists you love so much.
Sunday: The end of a trip. Dirty clothes packed, too many books packed, I congratulate myself on only having lost a camera case and one pair of black socks in 34 days of travel. I have a last cup of my on-the-road Nescafe and check in with my loyal laptop for any last messages—will be out of touch now for almost two days. Well there is my cell but at $2.29 a minute I do not chat lightly. I did not take my laptop to Gaborone, two nights and a day—which is what drove me to my nearly-hour of American Idol—NEVER leave home without your laptop or this could happen to you too. I will miss this cozy, convenient, quiet, quirky little Tama Rumah room in Melville, Jo’burg, SA. Anyone going to Johannesburg. Stay here.
Goodbye to Ann, a new friend, an energetic, kind and brave woman, younger than me but not so so much, who left South Africa to try Japan, teaching English for a year, and came home to start life over after years as a businesswoman, now the guesthouse manager, and William, her young assistant from Malawi, one of the world’s absolutely poorest countries, who sends money home to maintain younger siblings after the death of their mother and to support a wife and small child. He has land back home but no way to make a living on a small holding without farming equipment or money to buy fertilizers, etc. He is smart and exceedingly sweet young man who exclaims on how lucky people are to have been born in South Africa where the schools have chairs and blackboards and chalk and even some books!
A last afternoon of well-presented performances at the Dance Factory and my colleague, Jodee, and I are on our way to the Oliver Tambo (anti-apartheid leader along with Walter Sisulu and Nelson Mandela) Airport. Through passport control, I check my bags (because of books there are now two) and still have to carry an extra bag of book with me or I’ll be over weight limit. South Africa may have some of the world’s best book stores—not overrun with the latest trashy best-sellers from the likes of nasty-mouth blonde Republicans or celebrities-of-the-month. The ones where I fell under the book-browsers spell are full of all things southern African/African from biographies of people who’ve actually done something to poetry to literary fiction to—my favorites—the smart and surly and disenchanted but nevertheless somewhat sensitive police detectives fighting crime in neighborhoods with which I’m now familiar. Books are piled up everywhere and it just feels…well…bookish. Hey, I love all bookstores but some do seem more about reading than others.
The flights—airtime around ten hours to Frankfort—maybe nine to DC—three to Albuquerque. Don’t eat, take a pill, doze…it’s cold in Albuquerque, my son picks me up with latest family news and I’m soon home. The urge to travel will now lie dormant for up to two months…
Southern African Dance and Theatre
I am so lucky. A big chunk of South Africa time. I do love this country. My every-country-in-the-world-before-I-die strategy has to incorporate some extended time in special places—such as South Africa. I hope to do the same in Brazil and maybe in Russia, maybe in Australia. Vast spaces, multi-racial/cultural in very different ways—troubled, rich, big bad histories, personalities, sources of wealth. Oh for god sake Marjorie, stop planning the next trip before you’ve even stopped for milk on the way home from the airport and washed this trip’s laundry.
On this lovely southern African sojourn the first order of business was to conduct research about contemporary dance and theater artists in this part of the world. For me personally it is all about my belief that Americans need to know more about the world and one way to do that is to experience the work the worlds’ artists are creating. And to have a better sense of place. I have written previously about most of the following artists/places but to summarize:
Wednesday night, I abandoned dance and bought a ticket to Foreplay at the Market Theater by a controversial young playwright labeled the ‘Township Tarantino,’ Mpumelelo Paul Grootboom. Foreplay consists of a diverse range of explicit sex acts—initiated or forced by the preacher, the playwright, the politician and the pleading boy. The women who submit unwillingly, semi-willingly and commercially are flawed but actually come across as stronger and smarter than the men. Sometimes it’s hard to tell who’s the user, who’s the used. It is in your face front-row sex; one reviewer says “Foreplay is an essay on sex in Pretoria townships.” Figures…Pretoria is the primary seat of government. And HIV/AIDS is ever present but since its presence is represented by bubble gum bubbles and pink balloons I did not get that until reading the review. I must admit to being bothered by the giggles of the students (in their preppy uniforms of pleated skirts, dress slacks, white blouses and shirts, dark jackets and ties) in attendance and for that matter much of the rest of the audience. The more sexually graphic and violent the scene the louder the laughter it seemed. Okay okay okay…I am a little old lady in tennis shoes! All in all…the acting was powerful and the dance interludes intermingled with all that sex could be said to link Foreplay to Dance Umbrella!
Politics and Ranting
I so love this country. A history like ours but not so buried or air-brushed into meaninglessness. South Africans aren’t pretending they’ve won the battles against racism, sexism, bad politicians yet. The battles still rage throughout the media and throughout the arts. I personally think America hasn’t won the battle either but we do tend to gloss everything over by—Shopping! Being politically crazy cautious! Shopping some more! Voting for a man of African heritage and then not going back to the polls to elect people that are going to support his plans! Shopping some more! Both countries—big spaces, pioneers, battles aplenty. Subjugation of the native peoples. Slavery/reconstruction/apartheid. And good energy and beautifully diverse smart people and great artists. Only the Struggle is fresh in the minds of the population here and the artists and thinkers are making certain it is explored thoroughly before being relegated to the history books largely ignored everywhere.
Jump to the present. Can’t confuse President Zuma (with his 3-4 wives and at least 20 children) with President Obama. Can equate the Tea Party types and their ‘traditional values’ with Zuma’s traditional values however which he uses to justify his large family. When people are baffled by life’s intricacies and feel like they’ve lost control, they turn to a past airbrushed with simplicity—called a time of traditional values. Where men were men and everybody knew their place. So, my female friends and relatives and acquaintances… we know, we’ve always known, that “traditional values” is ALWAYS ALWAYS a code phrase that means ‘women beware…you are about to be put back in your place—and that place, if you remember, was NOT a desirable place to be.’ We have our problems in the U.S. with the traditionalists just as South Africans do with Zuma. I wish us all well.
The Afrikaner thunders his god-like proclamations as ancient cultures slip away in a feast gone awry. Meanwhile Sowetans hang at their new Mall of America prototype…doing exactly what Minnesotans are doing half way round the world—spending money on designer labels, new cell phones, junk jewelry, DVD’s, washers and dryers. It has been an eye-opening couple of days here in Jo’burg where the rain has departed, the sun shines and we more and more absorb the big vitality and excitement of this country—so like the US in so many ways.
A second week of contemporary dance of every size and shape begins today. I vow to eat less, a difficult task since the food is delectably good here (although I can’t speak for the crispy, greasy, salty quotient of the endless array of fried chicken places) and the wine does seem to be way above average—even the house wines are always smooth with a kind of sunny freshness that my seriously untutored palate actually notices. The African Crafts Market is appropriately stuffed with souvenirs from around Africa. Mostly beaded, carved, wired, tall, short, brown, gold, stripped, spotted giraffes, elephants, lions, zebras and hippo/rhinos abound; they’re called The Big 5 and they are the stuff of tourist nirvana—on hoof, paw or shop shelf. I would name South Africa’s Big 5 a little differently. Let’s see—how about the DANCE; the wide-open debate among everyday people and politicos about the future and SA’s continental role; the endless spaces of desert, veld, bush and farm country; the energy and excitement of the approaching world cup and finally the palpable presence of history-making in the very air you breathe.
About history then. An astonishing piece of work happened Sunday afternoon at the Dance Factory. Called The Time of Small Berries, created and performed by Sello Pesa, Peter Van Heerden and Andre Laubscher. I am doing my own interpretation, my own description here with some trepidation. I had to let the piece work through my psyche overnight before I even knew quite what it was—but a few minutes in I knew it was going to be important to me. Quite simply the work is what happened to the traditions of the indigenous people under colonialism. The Time of Small Berries was a special feast time in traditional African cultures—until Afrikaner colonialism obliterated it along with many of the other traditions of the Xhosa and Zulu people. The Afrikaners, founders of apartheid, in fact destroyed everything in their path that threatened their desire for total domination, replacing it all with a harsh and bitter Eurocentrism of the most regressive sort. The Time of Small Berries forces us to recognize that loss.
The audience wanders to the stage loading door, nearby Sello washes in preparation for the celebration, a pig slowly turns on the spit, drops of grease sizzle and the smell reminds me of a New Mexico political gathering in the South Valley on a crisp fall afternoon. When we finally enter the theater it is to sit in chairs circling the centerpiece…how incongruous a centerpiece it is with the chickens and dripping greasy messy meat and cases of beer just nearby…it is a white tablecloth and silver-set long table where visual artist/social activist Andre Laubscher, invites various audience members to sit. And talk. Meanwhile Sello Pesa and Peter Van Heerden pace, struggle, tie themselves literally in knots amidst sacks of spilling corn and beer. The chickens run under the chairs cackling in annoyance, stacks of plates are smashed violently by the actors over their own heads, a little more hesitantly by the audience, beer is everywhere, I guess what is South African/Afrikaner country music plays. Sello pees in a pail (discreetly) and donning his soccer uniform pontificates in an I-am-an-Afrikaner speech endlessly replicated—the irony building as platitudes from the whitest of cultures emanates from the throat of a powerful black African man. And still polite society sits around the table of colonialism discussing how to be happy, discussing what you do if your baby’s raped, somehow making it equally fit into the most inane of dinner table conversation. .
Peter Van Heerden and Sello Pesa are both respected dance/theater artists coming from very different places it seems. Peter is grappling with/exploring, through highly confrontive site-based and staged work, his identity as an Afrikaner white man in a society that has moved on from a time when that identity represented the source of all power. To see this work with roles reversed, Sello mouthing the Afrikaner speech, Peter literally tied, bound, struggling with his burdens of corn and history, so angry. This is an important piece, I think…I know. And a big messy theater piece. Not so many artists willing to delve quite this far into these relationships probably. I hope to ask both Sello and Peter via e-mail a little more about this work and include their comments in here.
There, I have dissected this work through my own naïve dance/South African history lens—it’s my story and I’m sticking to it in other words—only to be terribly embarrassed later if I find I completely misinterpreted everything.
History is contemporary is everywhere is alive here. Gregory Maqoma, our Dance Umbrella host and one of our favorite dance artists in this rich South African dance landscape, took some of us visitors on a drive through his hometown, Soweto. I’ve been before, the tourist route to the Apartheid Museum and the Hector Pieterson Museum (the 13-year-old child who was shot and killed as students marched to protest the forced teaching of Afrikaans in the schools—the resulting photo of the boy carried bleeding from the site by two other fleeing children was a huge chink in the armor of apartheid), we drove into the Beverly Hills of Soweto where the modest little home first shared by the young newly-married Mandelas and the only street in the world that has been home to TWO Noble Prize winners (Nelson Mandela and Bishop Desmond Tutu) and we saw from the hill Winnie’s current rather grander house where she lives and maintains a still powerful role in the ANC.
The best part was simply driving around contemporary Soweto. While the area does have its Beverly Hills, it is more about the ordinary pleasant homes in the older communities—the kind of homes in which most of us live or grew up. The very word Soweto conjures up massive blocks and warrens of hovels and crime and hopelessness and while those areas do still exist, most lives are lived in modest little or not-so-little homes, agreeably furnished, well-maintained, filled with family and cooking and dogs.
Gregory took us to meet his mom, a lovely vital woman, a widow with three sons, the dancer, the soon-to-be sangoma (traditional healer) and the soccer player. Her home is spacious and comfortable and, if the treat she sent with us is an example, she is a cake baker extraordinaire. Gregory’s brother was home, the dogs were playing, the mom and sons equally proud of each other. It is such a rare treat to get to meet the artists’ families—we are most grateful to Greg for the opportunity. We also found out that Greg has been commissioned to choreograph the opening dance number for the World Cup games held in the massive Soweto stadium. Now I have a reason to watch the Cup!
Kids coming home from school, scuffing their sneakers, teasing each other, kids rehearsing in a community center, sun shines on the giant Orlando Towers, a disused power station whose two cooling towers are landmarks on the Soweto skyline. They now serve as a showcase for the electric blues, greens, reds and golds of everyday life in Soweto as a train winds past the musicians playing, the fruit waiting to be tasted in the biggest mural in Africa—they could be said to power a certain irrepressible Soweto energy and pride. I am not trying to convey that all is love and roses in Soweto but there is something very infectious about the pride everyone from there seems to find in those origins. After all Soweto and the townships of Cape Town are where it all happened. They forced a nation to freedom—pretty inspiring. Remember we fought a civil war in addition to our marches and freedom rides, and South Africans managed to do it without resorting to the battlefields in the way much of the world expected. Sorry about that…but I am simply over and over impressed with this place and these people—black and white South Africans.
My rain-starved being is feeling less famished. Another week before I head back to my desert—will I be saturated with early morning lush peace and writing quiet—and thunder and morning’s green damp and the Market Theater plaza’s wet night neon shining?
Festival Mode. At noontime everyday there’s dance talk at the Market, led by Adrienne Sichel, a dance writer and critic here for many years; she may in fact know more about dance in South Africa and on this continent than anyone else. Adrienne is a striking older woman, rangy, blonde, pony-tail and jeans or sometimes suited and elegant, self-effacing you think until you realize how confidently she is addressing absolutely any dance subject related to Africa. The artists do want to talk—about how and why they make dance instead of doing what their mums and dads thought they should do, about politics of dance and the politics of ignoring politics in dance, about relationships within dance companies and between schools and locations and states and countries, and between the artists and the traditionalists of the Zuma government.
Attending a dance festival is an art in itself. The pace is maybe a bit slow in the beginning, haven’t started running into old friends, meeting new ones yet. Feeling out the best places for a wine or coffee, studying the programs to make sure you get to all of the performances and talks you don’t want to miss. Expectations are high! You know and love some of the artists, sometimes in spite of a particular piece, but mostly because you know who they are and what they mean to do with their dance. You expect all of the new work you will see to be brilliant. You expect to gain insight, broaden horizons, find new artists for your programs and you expect an agreeable surprise here and there.
The reality is almost as good as the expectations. Indeed all of the above happens! Artists show new sides of their creativity as they explore new ideas…black and white for example…what is that about in 2010? They make a new thing out of placing their own unique movement on a physically-opposite dancer. Or an artist you didn’t know gives you a new perspective on HIV/AIDS. How is that possible? And sometimes artists offer work that’s not quite ready or not well-conceived or executed or… you’re cold and tired and annoyed because the performance started so late…so the artist doesn’t get his/her creative due. In spite of never intending to slight any artist’s creative endeavors in any way, it does happen.
And over a beer and veggie lunch you talk to someone who surely ranks among the most idiosyncratic and perceptive artists you’ve met. A pattern develops. There’s another intellectually-stimulating or amusing or lazy lunch…and another. Afternoons might be for hanging out around the Market Theater and schmoozing with old friends and new. The Market has enough leather couches and chewy crusty chocolate-oozing soul-satisfying Brownies to sustain a visitor for a very long time. It’s all so damn civilized and thoughtful and…exciting.
Nelisiwe Xaba is a pure treat for me, a South African woman, one of few recognized female choreographers from here, and a true free dance spirit it seems. She is indeed as smart and funny and creative as some of us have suspected from following her work for awhile. In the first piece of hers I ever saw she spent considerable time in one of those large blue and red-stripped plastic shopping bags so prevalent in Africa. But that was then and the level of sophistication has jumped ten-fold. The work performed in the Market Theater the last few nights, BLACK!…WHITE?, is all new and all elegant. Political at its base, quirky and visual in execution, an exploration of just what it means to be black or white in a world where Neli believes this is a, if not the, main social/political question. Neli is also working with Malian and Brazilian choreographers on a piece with religion as its central thesis—certainly a work to which only someone with Neli’s irreverent worldview could do justice. But there is no funding for the piece and after all Mali, South Africa and Brazil are a bit far apart so maybe the work will never get made.
Most intriguing to me, Neli has made two dances about the Hottentot Venus, a pretty young South Africa woman taken to London to “display” her extraordinary physical feature, a rather substantial derriere, to European society. A book I am reading, The Hottentot Venus: The Life and Death of Saartjie Baartman/Born 1789—Buried 2002, will surely clarify how many tales of Saartjie’s life are apocryphal, how many bona fide. The second of Neli’s two pieces is called something like “Sarkozy rejects the Venus” and is the story of IF Saartjie had come to France! I cannot imagine how these pieces could not be original and a pure pleasure given the peculiarity and history of the story and Neli’s wit and political sensibilities. This is a project that, with some luck and careful planning, we may be able to get to Albuquerque!
Vincent Sekwati Koko Mantsoe can truly be given the label charismatic, a reality of which I was reminded last night at Dance Umbrella’s GALA opening. Vincent’s new work, SAN—destined for Albuquerque in October—was described in a previous post and I’ll come back to it in a minute. For now however I must talk just a little about the older solo, GULA. Made in 1992, it is a favorite of mine for all time. Vincent becomes a bird…as simple as that. I’ll use the description from the program to bring you further into why I like this work so much. “Gula Matari (The Birds) choreographed by the fabulous dancer Vincent Mantsoe, makes the dancer into a bird-being. One can only be fascinated by the simplicity and the accuracy of the disjointed and staccato gestures and is one of the most beautiful solos of the global contemporary repertoire.” Ayoko Mensah, Africultures, 1999”
I have a further relationship with GULA which attaches me even more deeply to the piece. In the 90s a richly-programmed and well-orchestrated artistic showcase/ conference/ festival of the African performing arts was held biennially over at least six years in Abidjan, Cote d’Ivoire. MASA (Marché des Arts du Spectacle Africain) was my introduction to the broad range of contemporary performing arts on this continent and I was enchanted with it all. The bustling city of Abidjan, West African culture, new programs, colleagues, artists. It was a multi-layered sensual experience of tropical heat, skinny roasting chickens and fat roasting fish, the baguettes and verbosity of French colonialism and everywhere the background of West African music and vendors and traffic. In the midst of this, in the grand and rather ugly conference/arts center built for the people of the Ivory Coast by the Chinese, I saw GULA. What to say? Thank you Vincent. GULA is an exquisite gem of performance to be lodged carefully on a protected shelf but taken down as often as possible for the sheer pleasure of communing with this delicate bird being.
Just a little more about SAN—a journey begun by Vincent in a book of photographs of the rock carvings left by the Khoi-San people as they left their southern African homelands and sought new shelter. Called ‘the living people of the desert,’ connected to the origins of the human race, the Khoi-San are honored and accompanied by Vincent Mantsoe and his dancers on this leg of their trip. Persian poetry and song offer a background somehow integral to the dance.
Vincent’s movement is so distinct that it seemed impossible that it could emanate from body types other than Vincent’s own. His tightly constructed and sinewy body seems to be the uniquely correct container for the control, the possession so necessary to express the power of his work. So, seeing that movement placed on a rangy red-headed French guy and three women required some double-take moments for me initially—and then I LOVED IT. Aude Arago and Desiree Davids were completely mesmerizing, such different bodies channeling Vincent’s moves…extraordinary!
A Little about PJ
The surprise of Wednesday was a piece by PJ Sabbagha called DEEP NIGHT. There’s a message, all about HIV/AIDS and how deeply the “tiny, sophisticated virus permeates our minds, bodies and hearts…”, great dark video backdrop and remarkably strong and charismatic dancers in a hard-pounding, in-your-face piece. I’m looking forward to seeing the piece in its entirety on a DVD or in real life in the near future.
There was an elegant GALA reception last night where Jo’burg’s art elite mingled with champagne and tiny egg rolls in hand, sheltered from the rain, looking slick and sophisticated, schmoozing animatedly, taking on their ‘important reception’ personas. Less and less my cup of tea as I happily age out of the expectation that I might possibly ever be charming.
Dancing. Last night at the Market Theatre Nelisiwe Xaba turned black to white and back again in a piece that poked fun at our racial confusions through a kind of sophisticated slapstick that was all black and white bodies, fashion, accoutrements, film. Neli is a funny, sharp-dance-tongued, opinionated woman who happens to move like a magic creature. I am at the Dance Umbrella Festival, Johannesburg, South Africa. The piece: BLACK!…WHITE?
The night before, Vincent Sekwati Koko Mantsoe, invited us along on …”journeys and spirits of the Khoi-san people…” the inspiration for SAN. Considering the history-telling petroglyphs of the Khoi-san, the dancers search for a place that’s theirs even as the world keeps shifting markers. They battle interior and exterior forces with Vincent’s forceful, almost-aggressive, possessed-by-spirits-and-demons movements.
How’s that for the first two days of a festival? Plus vital discussion and getting to hang out in the best of all places/worlds/centers of art that matter—the Market Theater. More about the Market later. I think I could live there, in what I think are substantial rock and marble and granite constructions, arches, high ceilings, big fat leather couches everywhere, exotically-decked out and coffee bar restaurants.
My Perfect Life. IT GETS BETTER. In addition to this continuing dance feast, there is rain, pour-downs of pure water with no air between it seems. They mostly come at night and the guesthouse roof magnifies every beautiful noisy bucketful. Remember I’m from New Mexico…this is a water-heaven for my thirsty soul. The guesthouse, Tama Rumah, is the best! Rambling in oddly-shaped rooms with a bathtub here, a shower there, might be a double or single bed. Might be a grand mahogany-looking headboard-or none at all. Windows that open all about looking into one of many gardens and courtyards, coffeepots, cookies…it is just so so so damn…cozy.
I get up early, no alarm and write and write to the music of mourning doves and their chirpier cousins. Make a coffee, turn on the computer…don’t have to go anywhere until noon. It is indeed my idea of the perfect world. If I could just have the Bosque and my Rio Grande a few blocks away I would never leave.
Dance Umbrella/Jo’burg. Johannesburg, South Africa hosts the best dance festival on the continent in my humble opinion; one of the nicest anywhere. Almost all are SA artists, most from or connected to Jo’burg. It is impressive. Not so many cities could present a festival of this variety and strength, all with local artists—NYC, Paris/a few other Euro cities, Tokyo, Rio? maybe that’s it. Since I’m not a dancer/dance expert my colleague, who is here at the festival also, will surely be the one to give you the dancier details on her blog. I will pass that address on later. For me, for now I will just tell what I love and what moves me, and what I hear these captivating dance makers telling me. Maybe my role is to tell the layman’s dance stories.
In addition to two weeks of dance evenings, there’s a most helpful bonus in the series of 1pm interview-discussions that take place between Adrienne Sichel, Johannesburg’s long-time dance critic and scholar, and festival artists. Yesterday’s, with Adrienne interviewing Vincent and Neli was particularly eye-opening for me. I’ve seen both artists’ work several times and I’m always struck by Vincent’s very distinct movement style. When I described him as appearing to dance-fight his way out of a spiritual or demonic possession of some frightful intensity that is simply what I see, the personal story I am making of the art he is presenting to me. Vincent talked yesterday about his attempts to make work that is about the spirit, the search, the individual, not to let it be muddled with contemporary social and political reality all of the time.
Neli appears to be quite the opposite. Her work is all inventive, idiosyncratic , and full of humor and wry comment. Her perspective is ALL about society and politics. She works much of the time in Europe and also in Brazil. BLACK!…WHIITE? is about race…what Neli claims as an overwhelming issue world-wide, not just here in SA.
Both artists include white dancers/artists in their work and both have been criticized for it. Neli, with a slightly caustic laugh, says ‘it seems it’s okay for white choreographers to have black dancers but the reverse bothers people…maybe blacks still aren’t supposed to be telling whites what to do…!” The artists spar a bit over their differing approaches. Everyone agrees on one thing however. Without a renewed effort to gain support for contemporary work here at home…it will increasingly become making their work with and even for Europeans all of the time—that’s where the funding exists.
Jo’burg. We’ll get around this rich vital energetic city more in the next days…but I’ve been here before and I still don’t quite get it! Cape Town was so easy. A beautiful multi-racial city by the bay. Johannesburg. Is. Not. Africa “Lite.” Our neighborhood, Melville, could be any up-scale, yuppie, hip neighborhood in any city world over. And—there may not be anything else quite like it in this city of 2+ million. We drove through downtown/city center last night: Impressive, even grand in some cases, buildings. Wide streets. Parks. Corporate headquarters, City Hall. It was end of the work day so street activity was thinning…could have been Houston. What was noticeable to me—because I keep looking for signs of post-racial South Africa (or post-racial anywhere else for that matter) was there was not a single white person along the entire drive. Gerard, one of our friendly Dance Umbrella hosts says, in response to my comment about this, that not so many years ago you ONLY saw whites on downtown streets unless it was time for the cleaners and servants to go home for the day.
This weekend we’ll go with our dance friends to Soweto. Now I think Lawrence, our festival driver, said a city of 4+ million. Biggest black city in the world he says.
Meanwhile I guess Zuma’s in London being feted by the Queen so maybe that attention will compete with his impulse to only appeal to the traditionalist, least progressive SA voices, and somewhere among his minions they will realize the art is good and not necessarily only important at ceremonial dances for a new wife.
God’s on the Bus. So close to Gaborone…so far from my travel goal of 192 (give or take) countries before I die. So what to do on a Saturday night but take the Intercape bus to Gaborone, Botswana and Immigration where the travel god will bless me with yet another passport stamp. And it did turn out to be something of a religious holiday. The bus rolls northwest out of Johannesburg through Illinois farm country—the corn is as high as … Right about here the on-board TV comes alive with what appears to be holy roller, fire and brimstone preachers straight from Elmer Gantry—except these have an Afrikaners accent. Through the farm country we go with pro-life ads, Christian pop and, through the small farm towns where only black South Africans seem to be fooling around and shopping and doing their Saturday night visiting. Starts getting dark as the umbrella thorn trees grow green and dense, earth reddens and fat brown and white cows and donkeys snack by the roadside against the sky-mountain purple dusk.
So still…where are endless roadside stands, knots of aimless men, women heading to somewhere with large baskets, kettles, bags perched elegantly on their heads. Where’s the trash? The smell from the smoky fires and the roadside rubbish? This, my friends is another Africa—southern being very different than western/central Africa. THIS IS PEACEFUL ORDINARY EVERYDAY SOUTHERN AFRICA.
At the bus stop I catch a taxi to the Gaborone Sun. I did try…I did…to find a reasonable normal hotel or guesthouse on line but Gaboronians aren’t big on response to such queries so when I finally decided to go I just booked what I could find easily and American Express-booked a resort gambling ex-pat-in-town-for-the-weekend-from-the-bush camp hotel. DO NOT DO THIS unless you’re coming overland from the deadly jungles of the Congo or have just gone by camel from Cairo to Casablanca. If this is your kind of hotel you should have stayed at home in Amarillo. The hotel staff is very nice however and quite astounded to have a little old lady appear in jeans and a backpack. Tucking myself in for the night to CNN earthquake disaster coverage was already boring…only CNN can repeat so much minutia about every disaster detail of every catastrophic calamity so that even the words and photos of death and destruction of the worst kind have a lulling effect. But I do love you in a kind of obsessive way, CNN.
Sunday Morning in Gaborone. Early, I’m rested, up, showered, out to breakfast. Instead of describing the breakfast myself I’ll let the author of my latest South African murder mystery do it for you. I was reading this while eating and I couldn’t do better myself. “across the deep tan industrial carpet flecked with tiny fern-like organic motifs…into the international-cuisine pine-and-etched-glass emporium with its compound-noun multi-cultural opulence. Sliced melons, German Hams, sausage links, glass jars of muesli and bran flakes weighted down the oversized teak table-top…an endless supply of full, dark coffee….glasses of papaya juice. Globalization. The last time … the juice was called “paw-paw”. Strange fruit.” Author Jane Taylor’s character goes on to describe the guests (except for me), “…Up-country South African parliamentarians, Nigerians, the deputy CEO from a Swiss blood bank attending a symposium on disease control, a French delegation from Rwanda, two Belgian forensic accountants investigating a tax fraud, and an American academic commissioned to write a hagiography of a South African left-liberal novelist. The American’s notebook computer was open in front of him as he jotted down a description of the group mingling around him.” (Of wild dogs: Jane Taylor, Double Storey Books, a division of Juta & Co. Ltd, Mercury Crescent, Wetton, Cape Town, 2005)
The idea I want to convey is that this crowd in some shape or the other is in every “resort” hotel in every developing country. I have always been so envious of the concept of ex-pat, knowing I’d make a more loyal American abroad than I can ever be at home; I’ve wanted to be one of them but I’m actually not so sure anymore. Whether cultural liaison or AIG rep or missionary or aid worker their lives seem to run parallel in every country. While my bus trip may not exactly introduce me to real life in this or any other country it is a tiny but bona fide experience!
Sunday morning then. After breakfast I try mightily to gather some ideas from various staff about what to do. “No, no,” they say, “you must rest, you can do nothing, everything is closed, it is the day people go to church and rest, you must rest too.” Now if I were economically-wise I would not be in Gaborone today…but even for me all of the dollars (rands, pula) I’ve spent on the bus and this hotel have to have been for something more than the passport stamp…don’t they? I get a little map of sorts and head for the Parliament and government buildings and the Main Mall. As your trusty Lonely Planet will tell you Gaborone primarily consists of malls and fast food joints but they are closed too on Sundays it seems.
Out the door for what turns out to be a perfectly perfect 2 ½ hour morning jaunt in the warm overcast Botswanian morning. Church-goers walking the neatly swept streets to a scattering of imposing and simple structures among the thorn trees and thorn bushes here on the edge of the desert. I know there are other trees but so far Google hasn’t yielded the information I need to name them. The people I can better describe. Race and tribe are obviously surer things here than in South Africa. The people are mostly Tswana, dark sculpted people of facial dignity and strength. They’re dressed very like our parents and grandparents dressed for church. The women in conservative, crisply-ironed, dark or brightly-patterned dresses, the men in suits or white shirts and slacks. Children spit and polished. They walk at a comfortable pace, not fast, not slow, small groups, obviously even here most people are sleeping in on Sunday morning. It’s a mile or two before I reach the government complex.
Government…as it should represent itself. Here a surprise. Pleasant buildings. well-maintained. Modest. MODEST. No armed secrurity—obvious at least. NO ARMED SECURITY. Am I in Africa? I’m certainly not in DC! Where’s the opulent Presidential Palace where you will be shouted at if you take pictures? It is not like Botswana has nothing anyone else wants. It has DIAMONDS. The biggest building in the neighborhood is in fact Debswana, the conglomerate of De Beers and the government of Botswana, with the majority of profits reverting to the country and apparently not into the private bank accounts of the government leaders. Seretse Khama Ian Khama is the president, son of the first great leader of Botswana who married an Englishwoman and was exiled to Great Britain for some years. The son is said to be quiet, smart, modest, unmarried, a pilot, wildlife advocate and fitness fanatic. Sounds like Barack’s single brother. Well, actually the Obama brother I’ve seen on TV appears to be rather crazy so I take that back. I am so impressed. I am sure this is government as it should exist. With apparently no one, local or international fundamentalist, gunning for the leader. I stroll from this quiet retreat in the heart of non-blood-diamond political power down the Main Mall, a collection of tacky storefronts offering loans, fried chicken, cheap clothing and videos. Only a couple of vendors are about so I purchase my Botswana souvenir, a brown and gold woven wall hanging for about $3.
Sunday Afternoon in Gaborone. I don’t know this yet but the adventure part of this trip is over. I’m back by noon, greeted by awed desk staff who say “you WALKED, wow, you are strong for such an old person is the subtext of course but that’s okay…if I’m going to get to every country in the world I need to be able to walk the streets when I’m there.
The Gaborone Sun. Gift shop. Decide not to buy the $300 ostrich feather scarf but do get one of South Africa’s gossipy fat Sunday papers. It’s not the Times…well actually it is the South African Times…less serious than our Times perhaps, but then a colleague arrived from the states yesterday with the NY Times for me and the Sunday Styles features an article on a new fad, bus-drinking…in comparison an article about Zuma’s fourth wife’s luxury home seems relatively weighty.
God of nomads, bless Gaborone and the Intercape bus company. No, god bless travel and passport stamps and new countries and curiosity. And thank you for Sunday in Gaborone oh mighty toothpick tree.
A note: I feel rather guilty about not exploring further somehow in this rather odd and elusive country. Two bits of information then: 1) Read Michael Stanley’s murder mysteries starring Detective Kubu (A Carrion Death and A Deadly Trade). They are much better in my humble murder mystery-expert opinion than the Women’s Detective Agency books. Not quite as simplistic. And then I found this poem on line at Off-the-Wall Poetry, a Western Cape web site. I share it to counteract any sense that Botswana is all mall and KFC.
Personal lives, emotional lives, social lives, sex lives, economic lives…blah blah blah…what about our geographic lives?
I grew up in the woods at the end of the gravel road (Minnesota, not Mississippi, otherwise Lucinda Williams Car Tires on a Gravel Road is my childhood memory too). The variety of green available in that world was pretty well covered by the balsam, cedar, spruce, balm of Gilead poplars (baummies to us), aspen/poplars, willows and more surrounding the tiny farmstead and stucco/log house; sometimes in late spring it was seeing all of the world through a kaleidoscope that only included shades of GREEN. And in spite of being rather poor how very secure it was. It was warm in the winter, full of friendly insect life in the summer, big yeasty loaves of white bread baking, maybe cinnamon rolls too, the kind with sour cream topping adding just a touch of tart to the warm sweetness of cinnamon and brown sugar, dogs barked, neighbors came for coffee, an environment that will always represent my version of the nest we probably all need.
This is to say I had a proper nest from which to approach the world. Somehow my apartment in Albuquerque, New Mexico manages to almost equal that early environment: Many trees because I’m near the Rio Grande, just minutes from the Bosque, now they’re cottonwoods and there is never quite the sense of falling into vat of ‘essence of green’, still…, my apartment is small, full of the bright dark colors that everyone says makes rooms seem even smaller, which for me is a goal—just recreated home. So there are not a lot of baking smells, should get a bread machine I guess (sorry, mom) but coffee perking and Amy’s Enchiladas cooking in the microwave supplies a bit of scent to the place. Besides when I walk by the river in the morning I can smell elephant dung and hear Africa Land awakening at the neighborhood zoo. That is why I do not need to go on safari when in Africa.
HOWEVER IN SPITE OF ALL OF THIS COZY-SOUNDING HOMESPUN RHETORIC, I AM ALWAYS MOVING ON–A NOMAD. Just need a nest to which to return.
Two Kinds of People
There really are only two kinds of people in the world (sometimes the lines blur or the multiple personalities overlap):
We have, then, the nesters and the nomads. Although again we must agree that nesters sometimes want adventure, to see the world’s sights and experience the world’s wonders—but it is probably not their priority. And nomads want to have a nest to which to return for connections, financial regrouping—as in work, the sheer familiarity of one’s own bed and shower.
In my own family there are examples of people confused about the category into which they fit. Robert and Marsha, you know who you are! Looking for the perfect place. Buying houses in Minnesota, Alaska, Florida, trying to love New Mexico where there’s family, maybe loving Louisiana or Alabama or Georgia…but not quite. Not moving beyond U.S. borders much because there is the DOG. But always always looking for the perfect nest while struggling with their evil nomadic twins
Here’s one way to know you’re a nomad. Two nights ago I was trying to shower, doubled over from the pain of an RA flare-up, vomiting up the sole thing I’d eaten in 24 hours. I was in Windhoek, Namibia—a very long way from home. Supposed to take buses over a couple of days to Johannesburg. Pain won the battle, besides which I could not walk, and I spent an extra day feeling lost and sorry for myself in a very foreign city. Early flight yesterday to Jo’burg, to doctor, massive dose of prednisone, night’s sleep and today I’ve planned and finished booking my bus trip and hotel in Gaborone, Botswana tomorrow!
We all envy each other. The nesters and the nomads. I wonder if it’s nature versus nurture. My family history includes apocryphal stories of gypsies and reindeer herders which generally I choose to believe, not based on fact but if we nomads only relied on fact where would we be—home saving money. And my dad came over from Norway on a ship. So there’s nature for you. I was nurtured in that snug nest ringed by trees so tightly you couldn’t see the storm until it was over your house. I knew I had to move on from a very early age—since my tiny self could turn the pages of mom’s old grade school geography book with the maps everywhere and big hand-colored photos of Rio and Yellowstone Park. Guess nature wins. Although I discovered after many years that my wayfarer father who had an itinerant fiddler for a great-grandfather really hated to leave his northwoods and my mother, who grew up in the relatively stable environment of the Dakota River Valley, was a closet nomad. I should have known since she remembered every single detail of every scrap of geography and history she ever had in school.
Okay…well I will think of this some more as I head up the road to GABORONE. Yes. With one small backpack. What a luxury for a nomad; usually you must take more than clean underwear a couple of books toothbrush billfold lipstick! Jackets tied to backpack in case the bus is cold. OFF TO ANOTHER PASSPORT STAMP.