The 22nd September

September 27, 2010 at 8:49 am (Uncategorized)

September 22 was Malian Independence Day.  50 years out from colonialism.  The village had its own celebration, out past the mayor’s office, with school desks set up in the scarce shade and drummers in knock off Converses readyto pound.  I happened (and by happened, I mean was forcefully steered) to be directed to a squishy chair to the mayor’s right as people I recognized as community leaders filtered in behind me ~ women’s association presidents, soap group heads, schoolteachers, headmistresses, priests, imams, bureaucrats, secretaries ~all manner of high muckety mucks.  Rather sullen looking kids filled in the schooldesks, interspersed with more mischievous looking teenagers.  I stopped paying attention to the arrivals as the mayor started with his speech making and award giving.  Maybe it was because it was all utterly incomprehensible to me that I zoned out and forgot to even look at the crowds welling up in my periphery.  It’s also possible that I was distracted by daydreams of 4th of July barbecues and the accompanying pies à la mode. 

Anyway, as the rather dull round of speeches was winding down and I slowly ascended from my food fantasies, wondering vaguely if this was going to be the extent of my Malian celebratory activity, I began to internalize the expectant rustles of fabric increasing around me and finally focused my heat glazed eyes on the seemingly spontaneous appearance of hundreds more eager faces than had been present the last tile I’d looked.  Staring at the crowd as the baffling background of oratory died down (I might have been mentioned in it, but didn’t really have the presence of mind to give something so coherent as recognition of that fact), I was struck by how much the restless crowd resembled the glittering, fluttering swarm of dragonflies that takes over streets, gardens, and fields here in the fecundity of the late afternoon heat.  One of the things I love about Mali is that they have fabric printed for every event~religious holidaysq, women’s days, elections, Barack Obama.  September 22 is no exception.In fact; several editions have emerged over the past few months, all with various backgrounds of blue and green, emblazoned with ’50′ and the Malian flag.  The preponderance of pagnes and complets bearing this vaguely waterish appearance was studded with the myriad colors and patterns, animals and umbrellas, jukeboxes and lightbulbs of everyone’s finest, donned for the occasion.

As I attempted to wrap my eyes around the glittering mass, the first rumblings of the drummers started (competing admirably with the simultaneous rumblings of an unreliable sound system).  After a moment’s lag, a group of teenage boys invaded the dancefloor, appearing from who knows where in tight jeans and so fully enthralled with their stylistic dancing ~reminiscent of Elvis Presley and just as self consciously ’hip’~they didn’t notice the invasion of a middle aged, slightly unhinged looking man into their midst.  Dancing with fish.  Live fish.  Swinging from his hands as he performed such acrobatics as would make Barnum and Bailey blush with shame and close up shop.  The eventual resting place of said fish (catfish, I think, but I tried not to look too closely at the wriggling)?  My feet.

Thirty seconds of slightly hysterical confusion ensued until Monsieur le Maire could snatch up the fish and slap them on the table in front of him, claiming them in a manner not unlike that of county police when a deer’s been hit.  ‘Well, if you don’t want it…’  In that time, a significant change had come over the dance floor.  The group of young bucks had been pushed out of the limelight by just two women.  While I find it impossible to guess age here, they were certainly past any flush one might term as youth, stooped from pounding millet and carrying children, mouths half toothless and thick ankles leading to ragged and over worked feet.  With a clear floor and a ready supply of music, these two women started dancing.  And what dancing.  Eyes half closed and sweat beginning to build, they stomped and clapped and jigged and twirled at a stunning and violent pace.  As one spread herself out sweepingly near the ground the other reached for the sky, arms embracing blistering sun.  The drums pounded on and their feet kicked up more and more dust as their movements became at once jolting and fluid.  And from their feet, I suddenly saw others, crowding the dancefloor.  From flip flop shod feet, my eyes traveled upward to the now growing number of festive tafes, to suddenly straightened backs (often with miraculously dozing infants strapped to them), to faces that, with the half smile of rapture and pure, radiating, selfless, selfish joy, were young and beautiful and free.

Happy Malian Independence.