tHERE i WAS IN THE DARK MOVING UNDERNEATH THE LEMOM branches, rumaging, searching for just one more Lemon. I never took Toni Morrison's atelier class, but I sure do love her writing, from Beloved. I want to use "rutting" but then I realized I meant rumaging.
The scent of lemon was about the leaves, there I was looking for one mroe lemon for more lemon juice for the chocolate tart I was making for my mother, her birthday is tomorrow.
There was no more lemon, but perhaps there was, but the dark concealed it, the small amount of white light bathing the area was not enough, not enough for me to see.
Though I can only be grateful for today. I won 1000 NAD (let's see how fast I am at division about U$125). Cool. Yes I apparently sent an sms message in the Bank Windhoek Competition, where they asked whether their patronage of the arts in Namibia was contributing to development, i.e. is this a good thing? Yes, a resounding yes.
I met a colleage of mine, in the room. In the room where we have tea, I offered some of my oatmeal raisin cookies, the cookies I baked against all odds last night, in spite of temptation to stray into the world of internet porn. I stuck to the recipe.
And she asked" Cookies, don't you call it a biscuit?"
"They are from the US, I learnt about them in US" and from one word to the next, as we say in Bulgarian, she found about me, she is Kudzai. She went to te United World College of the Adriatic. She knows basically my whole story, about how my dad went to Bulgaria , during the struggle as a commie...
Ok enough of this time to plan:
What do I want to do? Now!
1) I must study probability
2) New GRE words need to be learnt
3) Write to Pabso about my idea for a UWC national committee that selects students from civil society organisations.
K
Monday, August 31, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
The Blue Suitcase
"What's the code to the blue suitcase?" My brother asked from outside the toilet door. Sitting and passing stools (a very medical term for it). "797" I said automatically, because I knew that code. I had used that suitcase for my journey, when I first went to Princeton, and probably before that when I went on holiday to Paris at age 16, the trip that paved the way for my eventual acceptance to Princeton UniversitY. Now my brother was on his own journey, a journey to the land of his ancestors, where his mother was born. The journey will probably force him to grapple with his competence in bulgarian and drive him to become more conversant, while dusting off the cobwebs on this part of his identity. The code to the blue suitcase, the way of transition, my transition from one place to another, one school to another since grade 1. I am in transition whether or not I am sedentary or not, I envision myself as moving from one place to another and the blue suitcase symbolizes this.
"What's wrong with this one?" Picky, my brother asks, as I implore him to not unpack the clothes from the suitcase they are already in, the large grey black one that Amanda Howard gave to me not so long ago, softmore year. "It's a good suitcase" I say, pointing to the grey one, since it did save me after I missed my plane softmore year. But my brother was bent on transfering his possession to the blue suitcase. Transfer possessions or funds from one country to another, my sister wiring money to my account, me asking for my photos back from the carrel in Lewis Library. International flows of people, money and knowledge, across the world wide web are intertwined with the person I am today. Now why is he obssessed with transfering, like I was when I left Princeton, moving stuff from one suitcase to other, so late at night (or early in the morning), because I would not have those suitcases be heavy, not like when I first came and they weighed 25 kg (55 lb) each. The suitcases where light at the airport when I left, easy on the hands, not extoling much energy. There I was happy, though I left so much behind.
I wanted him to study, that's what I wanted, so then he would do well and go to a good college and live happily ever after in this construction of a sucessfull human being that now reigns in the developed world. But no, he had to unpack and repack.
Is it because I regret not having studied, enough. Not having eaten, enough. Not having travelled enough, no that I is no regret of mine. Though, travelling from this place to that, United World College to Princeton, back to Namibia, what for? Is there a purpose or it perpetual, meaningless transit. I do love transit, make no mistake. That is why I wondered up and down the moving floors, made of escalator material, in Frankfurt airport and JFK.
The Blue suitcase is my way out, an escape from the infidelity of my father that stinks up our home, from the initial lack of oppportunity to study what I want, from the fear of having to explain why I don't have a girlfriend, up to now.
The color blue is the color of salvation, apparently, I watched long ago, about how the Blue light was seen by those facing imminent death during Holocaust. Blue Star of David, the blue dress of the Virgin. Rays of blue light emmanate from the sky for my eyes to perceive.
There is the blue suitcase and I hope it breaks. Spero che si rompa. So that I may live for the now and not for the then or when.
Amen
"What's wrong with this one?" Picky, my brother asks, as I implore him to not unpack the clothes from the suitcase they are already in, the large grey black one that Amanda Howard gave to me not so long ago, softmore year. "It's a good suitcase" I say, pointing to the grey one, since it did save me after I missed my plane softmore year. But my brother was bent on transfering his possession to the blue suitcase. Transfer possessions or funds from one country to another, my sister wiring money to my account, me asking for my photos back from the carrel in Lewis Library. International flows of people, money and knowledge, across the world wide web are intertwined with the person I am today. Now why is he obssessed with transfering, like I was when I left Princeton, moving stuff from one suitcase to other, so late at night (or early in the morning), because I would not have those suitcases be heavy, not like when I first came and they weighed 25 kg (55 lb) each. The suitcases where light at the airport when I left, easy on the hands, not extoling much energy. There I was happy, though I left so much behind.
I wanted him to study, that's what I wanted, so then he would do well and go to a good college and live happily ever after in this construction of a sucessfull human being that now reigns in the developed world. But no, he had to unpack and repack.
Is it because I regret not having studied, enough. Not having eaten, enough. Not having travelled enough, no that I is no regret of mine. Though, travelling from this place to that, United World College to Princeton, back to Namibia, what for? Is there a purpose or it perpetual, meaningless transit. I do love transit, make no mistake. That is why I wondered up and down the moving floors, made of escalator material, in Frankfurt airport and JFK.
The Blue suitcase is my way out, an escape from the infidelity of my father that stinks up our home, from the initial lack of oppportunity to study what I want, from the fear of having to explain why I don't have a girlfriend, up to now.
The color blue is the color of salvation, apparently, I watched long ago, about how the Blue light was seen by those facing imminent death during Holocaust. Blue Star of David, the blue dress of the Virgin. Rays of blue light emmanate from the sky for my eyes to perceive.
There is the blue suitcase and I hope it breaks. Spero che si rompa. So that I may live for the now and not for the then or when.
Amen
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Youth Group
I found a new youth group that I will go to. It now has become part of the several youth groups I have gone to in my life, an addition to, rather than a replacement of Manna. The poeple that go there are our age, and a bit older, I think.
It is at a pentacostal church, rosy pink, near my home, called Highlands ASSEMBLIES of God. Growing up, I knew of this Church, but only recently have I gone. I am also involved in starting up a Catholic Youth Group that will bridge the gap between the main Cathedral in Windhoek center and my own parish near where I live. My hope is that it will also reach out to other parishes, so that we can do community serivce (volunteer) and how fun as well.
I have come to realize that the model of worship at the fellowships as Princeton is well established in the charasmatic churches here.
Interestingly, rather than being controlled by a central Church in the US, the form of worship, with a band, a powerpoint projection and those American praise have been exported. Through the dissemination of this form of liturgy (if it can be called that), all those movements are united, singing common songs, such as " Blessed Be the Name of the Lord", "Heart of Worship" and "There's no God like Jehovah" and common extatic experiences, which are marked by physical manefestations of the Spirit, through song, dance and speaking in tongues.
It is at a pentacostal church, rosy pink, near my home, called Highlands ASSEMBLIES of God. Growing up, I knew of this Church, but only recently have I gone. I am also involved in starting up a Catholic Youth Group that will bridge the gap between the main Cathedral in Windhoek center and my own parish near where I live. My hope is that it will also reach out to other parishes, so that we can do community serivce (volunteer) and how fun as well.
I have come to realize that the model of worship at the fellowships as Princeton is well established in the charasmatic churches here.
Interestingly, rather than being controlled by a central Church in the US, the form of worship, with a band, a powerpoint projection and those American praise have been exported. Through the dissemination of this form of liturgy (if it can be called that), all those movements are united, singing common songs, such as " Blessed Be the Name of the Lord", "Heart of Worship" and "There's no God like Jehovah" and common extatic experiences, which are marked by physical manefestations of the Spirit, through song, dance and speaking in tongues.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
New GRE words
New GRE words to learn!
adulerate:
To reduce in purity by combining with inferior ingridients
e.g. don't adulterate my weed by mixing with actual grass
aver: FROM the french s'averer, and latin Veritas (truth)
To reveal the truth about something, to state a fact
It avered that he is actually gay
dissemble
To disguise conceal or mislead
Dissemble my path by deleting my browsing history
grandiloquence,
What a pompous speach he gave, a perfect example of grandiloquence
hackneyed
Music is a universal language, what a hackneyed phrase, better to say Music transcends language
iconoclast,
Madonna is a true iconoclast, ever rebelling against gender roles and hegemonic ideas of sexuality.
impassive:
revealing no emotion, he is sooo impassive
Inchoate=incipient=initial not fully formed=embryonic
Infelicitous
How unfortunate, the hapless boy, so infelicitous
Loquacious
Oh that girl is soo talkative so loquacious
insipid
This lacks flavour, it is so insipid
penury (penurious is the adj)
The health facilities are in a state of penury, no money!
Pith (of a fruit)
the essential or central part, that is the gist (pith) of it.
Pithy:
What a pithy saying "All women become like the mothers, that is their destiny, no man does, that is his"
Prodigal : The prodigal son squandered his inheritence
Querrolous: likes to argue
recalcitrant:
He defies the police and courts, he is recalcitrant,
I don't know what to do this employee, he just does not respect my authority, so recalcitrant
Repudiate
I will repudiate you (like disown you) if you dare tell that I raped you.
Rescind:
Rescind your PDF please!
Reverent:
It is like to revere something, His approach towards the Pope was most reverent
Specious:
That seems to be true, but it is actually false, that is specious
Spurious:
Ufology is a spurious subject, it is an illusion - Henry Thomas
Subpoena: Go to court!
surfeit: excess
Tirade=diatribe
Harsh speach that is a denunciation
adulerate:
To reduce in purity by combining with inferior ingridients
e.g. don't adulterate my weed by mixing with actual grass
aver: FROM the french s'averer, and latin Veritas (truth)
To reveal the truth about something, to state a fact
It avered that he is actually gay
dissemble
To disguise conceal or mislead
Dissemble my path by deleting my browsing history
grandiloquence,
What a pompous speach he gave, a perfect example of grandiloquence
hackneyed
Music is a universal language, what a hackneyed phrase, better to say Music transcends language
iconoclast,
Madonna is a true iconoclast, ever rebelling against gender roles and hegemonic ideas of sexuality.
impassive:
revealing no emotion, he is sooo impassive
Inchoate=incipient=initial not fully formed=embryonic
Infelicitous
How unfortunate, the hapless boy, so infelicitous
Loquacious
Oh that girl is soo talkative so loquacious
insipid
This lacks flavour, it is so insipid
penury (penurious is the adj)
The health facilities are in a state of penury, no money!
Pith (of a fruit)
the essential or central part, that is the gist (pith) of it.
Pithy:
What a pithy saying "All women become like the mothers, that is their destiny, no man does, that is his"
Prodigal : The prodigal son squandered his inheritence
Querrolous: likes to argue
recalcitrant:
He defies the police and courts, he is recalcitrant,
I don't know what to do this employee, he just does not respect my authority, so recalcitrant
Repudiate
I will repudiate you (like disown you) if you dare tell that I raped you.
Rescind:
Rescind your PDF please!
Reverent:
It is like to revere something, His approach towards the Pope was most reverent
Specious:
That seems to be true, but it is actually false, that is specious
Spurious:
Ufology is a spurious subject, it is an illusion - Henry Thomas
Subpoena: Go to court!
surfeit: excess
Tirade=diatribe
Harsh speach that is a denunciation
Today there was an earthquake
So Today was really an interesting day. It was Tuesday and I here I am at home, writing on my blog. There has been alot of fighting at home. I cooked a curry meal, which I thought was wonderfull, with brocoli and coliflour. I gave some to my brother to eat, first he was hesistant, telling me "Pancho I've already eaten", then he took the plate, left his room and the pile of notes on his desk (he has exams these days) and came to eat in the sitting room. He also had some leftover take away sandwich, which contained deep fried fries and some sausages, which he wanted me to taste, as if we were exchanging foods. I thought it was revolting, but nontheless tasted, so that he could taste what I had. We play these games me and my brother.
Than, he ate what was on the plate, except the most of the minced meet (ground beef) curry I made, he only took a few pecks of that, but he ate the vegies or some of them. Then he decided to go back and retire to study in his room, after we watched part of a movie about an teenage boy that stutters, but nevertheless was recruited for a debating competition, which the organizers later advises him to quit, on account of the fact that he and every other kid recruited by a certain lady are all disasters, like one girl who apparently had the worst irratible bowl syndrome known to date. It was apparently so bad that at Princeton a team did a study on her. We don't have people study human ailements at Princeton, that is in vivo studies, as far as I know.
Anyway, so after we watched this, my brother left, failing to take the paper wrapper and the half eaten sandwich on the table. It is funny I was soo annoyed by this, because my own roomates Junior year would do this, leave food half eaten in the living room area, and it annoyed me but never did I once tell them to dispose of it immediately, as I told my brother.
He locked his door and I knocked, he put on his music to drown me out, but I knocked and knocked, so hard that I even felt that the earthquake that took place in Namibia on Friday, that we did not feel in Windhoek, but that unsettled homes in other parts of the country, perturbing people psychially and psychologically, had come again.
I knocked and knocked, believing that yes, I enjoyed this fgame and I was teaching my brother a lesson. He did not yield. I stopped and started talking, after what he claims was 15 minutes of me thumbing on his door, like on a drum, asking him to take his leftovers away, he opened up and swore at me and told me to leave and threw two pairs of shoes, thats four shoes consecutively at me, throw the shoe, close the door, warn me to leave and then open up to throw another one at me.
I was sore, I protested at his barbarism and how it was nearly like the boy at his high school, my high school, who was kicking another boy on the ground, in the stomach, over and over again, during a fight.
I guess I started this fight, so I got off worst.
I called my dad, and he of course told me : "Just leave Picky alone, he will do in his own time, why do you always want people to listen to you?" At this point, for me, what was at stake turned into me appealing for my dad to home, to be with us, to make peace and not always be away from home, albeit in the same city. It was in vain, he said no and also that he would not come home if we behaved like this.
"You are a grown man now, why do you fight with your brother?"
True, why?
I cried on the phone and he called Picky, to tell him more I guess, about how I had been right to an extent, but of course, this si not remedy the situation
And my brother rejected my appology and threw out the card I slid under his door, that locked door that shook underneath my fists.
Than, he ate what was on the plate, except the most of the minced meet (ground beef) curry I made, he only took a few pecks of that, but he ate the vegies or some of them. Then he decided to go back and retire to study in his room, after we watched part of a movie about an teenage boy that stutters, but nevertheless was recruited for a debating competition, which the organizers later advises him to quit, on account of the fact that he and every other kid recruited by a certain lady are all disasters, like one girl who apparently had the worst irratible bowl syndrome known to date. It was apparently so bad that at Princeton a team did a study on her. We don't have people study human ailements at Princeton, that is in vivo studies, as far as I know.
Anyway, so after we watched this, my brother left, failing to take the paper wrapper and the half eaten sandwich on the table. It is funny I was soo annoyed by this, because my own roomates Junior year would do this, leave food half eaten in the living room area, and it annoyed me but never did I once tell them to dispose of it immediately, as I told my brother.
He locked his door and I knocked, he put on his music to drown me out, but I knocked and knocked, so hard that I even felt that the earthquake that took place in Namibia on Friday, that we did not feel in Windhoek, but that unsettled homes in other parts of the country, perturbing people psychially and psychologically, had come again.
I knocked and knocked, believing that yes, I enjoyed this fgame and I was teaching my brother a lesson. He did not yield. I stopped and started talking, after what he claims was 15 minutes of me thumbing on his door, like on a drum, asking him to take his leftovers away, he opened up and swore at me and told me to leave and threw two pairs of shoes, thats four shoes consecutively at me, throw the shoe, close the door, warn me to leave and then open up to throw another one at me.
I was sore, I protested at his barbarism and how it was nearly like the boy at his high school, my high school, who was kicking another boy on the ground, in the stomach, over and over again, during a fight.
I guess I started this fight, so I got off worst.
I called my dad, and he of course told me : "Just leave Picky alone, he will do in his own time, why do you always want people to listen to you?" At this point, for me, what was at stake turned into me appealing for my dad to home, to be with us, to make peace and not always be away from home, albeit in the same city. It was in vain, he said no and also that he would not come home if we behaved like this.
"You are a grown man now, why do you fight with your brother?"
True, why?
I cried on the phone and he called Picky, to tell him more I guess, about how I had been right to an extent, but of course, this si not remedy the situation
And my brother rejected my appology and threw out the card I slid under his door, that locked door that shook underneath my fists.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
JOB
So Now, I am working for the Service Provision Assessment Survey. I am doing the management of the data entry, supervising it. I have to compile tables on the number of things that are missing, the number of things that are found and give these to the National Supervisors of the survey, or census, as it is, since all health facilities are included.
It is kind of daunting. My boss, this wonderfull lady named Jeanne left for Maryland on Friday. She is really amaizing, she has been doing for over 30 years and programs in CS pro and taught me how to use DOS. Amaizing. She said I was a blessing to her and that we have the same brain, though hers is not perfect. I learnt a bit of her coding language, the one used for the survey and I want to do more. Now I am aiming to do the minimum, to do just what she told me. Confused? When I achieve the minimum, then I go for the maximum otherwise, I have nothing.,
I found this out at Princeton University. Me being called, a treasure and a blessing, these probably have something to do with my training at Princeton.
I am paid by the Global Fund for HIV and Malaria, PEPFAR and USAID. Funny. At school, as a member of the Student Global AIDS campaign, I asked people to petition to exent PEPFAR funding to Sub-Saharan Africa, and here I am benefiting from it. My aim is to save $2000, which will be enough, I hope to do my MPH and thesis here in Namibia. There is alot I can do here in epidemiology.
It is kind of daunting. My boss, this wonderfull lady named Jeanne left for Maryland on Friday. She is really amaizing, she has been doing for over 30 years and programs in CS pro and taught me how to use DOS. Amaizing. She said I was a blessing to her and that we have the same brain, though hers is not perfect. I learnt a bit of her coding language, the one used for the survey and I want to do more. Now I am aiming to do the minimum, to do just what she told me. Confused? When I achieve the minimum, then I go for the maximum otherwise, I have nothing.,
I found this out at Princeton University. Me being called, a treasure and a blessing, these probably have something to do with my training at Princeton.
I am paid by the Global Fund for HIV and Malaria, PEPFAR and USAID. Funny. At school, as a member of the Student Global AIDS campaign, I asked people to petition to exent PEPFAR funding to Sub-Saharan Africa, and here I am benefiting from it. My aim is to save $2000, which will be enough, I hope to do my MPH and thesis here in Namibia. There is alot I can do here in epidemiology.
Dance performance and more!
Le soir est la période idéal pour ruminer sur ce que j’ai fait toute la semaine. Savez-vous que après avoir mangé, le girafe se met à ruminer pendant six heures! C’est beaucoup, moi je ne pourrait pas mâcher pendant aussi long de temps. En tout cas, je suis là, à vous écrire, décrire et raconter ce qui me reste à l’esprit. Pour faciliter que le maximum nombre de mes amis comprenne mon blog, je vais passer à l’Anglais, mais d’abord je dois vous dire que la solitude dans laquelle je me retrouve est tranquille, elle me fait se reposer et réfléchir sur ma vie actuelle. Pourtant, j’essaie de ne pas être rendu léthargique en ce moment de repose, car je sais que chez les herbivores de la savane, la rumination émousse les muscles.
In any case, my muscles are fine. I danced today outside a shop in the Wernhill mall in Windhoek! It was for a fundraiser for the college of the arts, where I dance biweekly. Today is Saturday, the Sabbath and what a blessed Sabbath it was. There was us, three of us, the choreographer Angelika Schroder, another student Nangula and myself. We danced the Trio choreographed by Angie. It was at about quarter to twelve. There was improv and there was falling. I realised that about all of my improv came from movements from earlier pieces I had made at Princeton. I guess the more pieces I create, the more material I will have for spontaneous improvisation.The Ovahimba movments where there, the movements of me on the floor, like a lizard, from the Harbor (originally created for Christopher Williams in 2006) and some other things.
My mother was there, so was my brother (whom I had to pay about U$ 25 to come and watch me), funny is it not. In any case, I had planned to give him some of the money I earn from work.My brother sleeps in, he is rarely up before 1pm, being the teenager that he is. He asked me earlier, not today, earlier about hip hop and breakdancing. I gave him a contact number I found on a poster of a black figure with his legs in the in a breakdance style pose, I tore off the number in downtown Windhoek and brough it home. He still has to call.
Nora, a friend of ours, a family friend, came afterwards. She missed the performance, but was thrilled to see me. She said to my mom"see he can do both, and you were so afraid". To what extent does her statement mean I have achieved anything and that I am living my ideal of harmony between me doing epidmeiology and me doing art? I don't know. Everyday, I have to recast my realtionship to them. Just recently, I decided to start writing articles and letters to the media about public health issues rather than dance reviews. Why? Well, let's say I need to explore epidemiology. My newest letter is going to be about Namibian prisoners. Both literally and figuratively, the cracks in our countries AIDS policy is to be found in our prisons, just put a little thing in those cracks and AIDS can spread faster than we anticipated. We don't know the prevalance in the prisons, but officially, the should not have condoms, lest we are encouraging the sin of sodom in our 95% christian country. Sin is happening, I guess, it is, regardless, and in the rural areas, nurses are already depositing, dropping off, giving condoms to the prisons. Whether these reach the inmates is unknown.
The dance, in many ways, was supposed to relate to part of what I wrote above, or at least me falling and screaming the word "gat", which in Afrikaans means "hole". The hole, the black hole that is our prisons, the glory hole and all that which allows fast spread of HIV. However, I forgot about that somehow, for most the off dance, till I fell and I was caught. We did the whole say a word and fall, randomly, while dancing all over the space, similar to the whole "me" game that was done and is still done in places where there is dance in the US. Bill T Jones. He told us, we should do something and ask make someone care.
In any case, my muscles are fine. I danced today outside a shop in the Wernhill mall in Windhoek! It was for a fundraiser for the college of the arts, where I dance biweekly. Today is Saturday, the Sabbath and what a blessed Sabbath it was. There was us, three of us, the choreographer Angelika Schroder, another student Nangula and myself. We danced the Trio choreographed by Angie. It was at about quarter to twelve. There was improv and there was falling. I realised that about all of my improv came from movements from earlier pieces I had made at Princeton. I guess the more pieces I create, the more material I will have for spontaneous improvisation.The Ovahimba movments where there, the movements of me on the floor, like a lizard, from the Harbor (originally created for Christopher Williams in 2006) and some other things.
My mother was there, so was my brother (whom I had to pay about U$ 25 to come and watch me), funny is it not. In any case, I had planned to give him some of the money I earn from work.My brother sleeps in, he is rarely up before 1pm, being the teenager that he is. He asked me earlier, not today, earlier about hip hop and breakdancing. I gave him a contact number I found on a poster of a black figure with his legs in the in a breakdance style pose, I tore off the number in downtown Windhoek and brough it home. He still has to call.
Nora, a friend of ours, a family friend, came afterwards. She missed the performance, but was thrilled to see me. She said to my mom"see he can do both, and you were so afraid". To what extent does her statement mean I have achieved anything and that I am living my ideal of harmony between me doing epidmeiology and me doing art? I don't know. Everyday, I have to recast my realtionship to them. Just recently, I decided to start writing articles and letters to the media about public health issues rather than dance reviews. Why? Well, let's say I need to explore epidemiology. My newest letter is going to be about Namibian prisoners. Both literally and figuratively, the cracks in our countries AIDS policy is to be found in our prisons, just put a little thing in those cracks and AIDS can spread faster than we anticipated. We don't know the prevalance in the prisons, but officially, the should not have condoms, lest we are encouraging the sin of sodom in our 95% christian country. Sin is happening, I guess, it is, regardless, and in the rural areas, nurses are already depositing, dropping off, giving condoms to the prisons. Whether these reach the inmates is unknown.
The dance, in many ways, was supposed to relate to part of what I wrote above, or at least me falling and screaming the word "gat", which in Afrikaans means "hole". The hole, the black hole that is our prisons, the glory hole and all that which allows fast spread of HIV. However, I forgot about that somehow, for most the off dance, till I fell and I was caught. We did the whole say a word and fall, randomly, while dancing all over the space, similar to the whole "me" game that was done and is still done in places where there is dance in the US. Bill T Jones. He told us, we should do something and ask make someone care.
Dance REVIEW
Dance at the proscenium stage is rare in Namibia. Apart from the annual ballet performance, there are only of handful performances, which treat dance as an art. After the curtains were raised at the most recent dance performance at the National Theatre of Namibia, I heard a voice announce “ Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the College of the Arts Dance show, we are going to entertain you with a variety of dances – modern, Afro-fusion, contemporary and Hip Hop, please enjoy the show and don’t forget the applause”. I then recalled I was watching the winter show of the students and teachers of the dance program of the College of the Arts for the enjoyment of the students’ friends and family, without whose support there would be no dedicated dance students and no show. Hence, the challenge for teachers at the college of the arts is to create dances that express their artistic visions, as well creating dances that are entertaining.
The show was titled Reflections of Us and it did show part of what it means to be a dancer for the concert stage. While a group of unassuming women, of different shapes and sizes, some voluptuous others slim, moved sinuously on stage, swaying their hips and rolling their shoulders, a video of dancers rehearsing hip hop and stretching was projected on the background. The dancers in the video were kids and teenagers, while the women on stage appeared to be adults. This enchanting juxtaposition made a statement – we are dancers, we are men and women, of different ages and this is what we do. Indeed, I was also mesmerized by the most of the other pieces, where I saw the bodies of young people jet through space, as they leapt with one arm forward and legs spread in the air; the beating of a foot against the knee as a woman hops with her one leg bent in the shape resembling the number 7 against her other straight one, the scurry of young girls across the stage, with their arms free to wave. Enjoyment was manifested in the physicality, as the young boys and girls were dancing in group formations to music of popular songs. Amidst this commotion of many bodies, there were also gem solo moments, such as a girl shaking her omatako in rapid, punctuated movements, which roused roaring cries from the audience.
There was also a Michael Jackson impersonation, a solo performed by a teenage girl. She executed his legendary moves; the fast side steps with the knees bent just a tad and that bouncing of the shoulders and she did all this with such ease that she appeared indifferent to the crowd’s cheers. I would have loved to see her let loose and improvise a little as she reveled in her moment on stage.
Apart from the pieces that were meant to entertain, the choreographers Trixie Munyama and Angelica Schröder presented works that attempted to engage some aspects of being Namibian. Munyama showed a piece set on a group of teenage girls. The girls were initialy all asleep in a clump on stage and then one by one ,they awoke and performed a solo. One girl moved in drudging heavy steps and then sat down with her head over her head and rocked back and forth like a big, angry baby. Another spun around and opened her arms to the sides as if she wanted some type of freedom. For me, Munyama was touching on the tension between childhood and incipient womanhood. This was especially made clear by the backdrop, which was a collage of several newspaper headings about the youth. In addition, sounds of giggling girls that spoke about boys came and went during the piece. At one point, the girls came to dance together, and a song from the contemporary South African pop genre was played, complete with an unmistakably African female voice. As group of girls moved towards center stage, they expanded and contracted theirs chests and thumped their feet in a repeating rhythm. Group dancing dominated for the remained of the piece, with a lot of different movements from the standard modern dance reparatory, like the attitude kick. Unfortunately, the memorable solos from the start of the piece were not reintroduced for further development. Questions remained answered - Who are these girls or women? What is their story? At the end, the group came together, with one girl standing atop the shoulders of the others, with her fist raised in the air, like the SWAPO man. This seemed to be a victory, but because there was so much going earlier, I probably did catch what battle was won. Munyama would do well to hone in on that one element she is engaging, which for me had to do with coming of age. I saw the young girls running across the stage to throw handfuls of sparkly glitter to audience, Africanist dance, modern dance technique and even movements with political echoes. I would love to see one of these developed throughout the whole piece.
Angelica Schröder, however, focused on her Afro-fusion technique in her piece, which mesmerized me. The dancing was in the foreground of a projection of traditional Namibian dancers in grass skirts, from either Kavango or Caprivi. The feet of these men and women furiously struck sandy ground at the center of stadium, surrounded by spectators. Indeed, national celebrations at stadiums are the place and occasion that most of Windhoek’s residents encounter traditional dance. Now it was here, projected on stage, while a young woman also adorning grass skirt dances on the proscenium. But she did not mimic the professionals on the screen. Instead, she carries a basket in her arms and in swooping gestures appears to collecting food, sorting grain from the chaff or offering. Later, she leaves the basket and clicks her heels together in jumps across the stage, in an unmistakable Namastap, which to me resembled the cabriole of ballet. She is joined by a large group of women who dance with their arms, moving them in rippling waves. The contrast between the footwork of the screen and the articulation of arms was captivating. However, what are to make of this? We only fully grasp Schröder’s aim when she herself performs as a silhouette superimposed on the footage of the traditional dance. The shadow moves fluidly, the muscles of the whole arm gesticulating in wide caresses of the spaces above her. I remember how she bent backwards, with her breast to the sky, as if she was imploring the heavens with her arms. This fluidity was punctuated by sharp jumps with both legs, as if she was plucked from the floor by waist, and wide arcs of an extended leg through the space and bouncy steps of the feet in effervescent rhythms. This improvisation of Schröder, which employed West Africa styles, demonstrated with great ebullience what how one can expand and manipulate our local dance vocabulary, by mixing styles of ‘the West’, with that of West Africa and our own.
Reflections of Us was an eye opener into the creativity of Namibian choreographers who have ingeniously incorporated their art into a dance recital of the only conservatory in Namibia, the college of the Arts. Without being pretentious, they delivered entertainment and something more to think about.
The show was titled Reflections of Us and it did show part of what it means to be a dancer for the concert stage. While a group of unassuming women, of different shapes and sizes, some voluptuous others slim, moved sinuously on stage, swaying their hips and rolling their shoulders, a video of dancers rehearsing hip hop and stretching was projected on the background. The dancers in the video were kids and teenagers, while the women on stage appeared to be adults. This enchanting juxtaposition made a statement – we are dancers, we are men and women, of different ages and this is what we do. Indeed, I was also mesmerized by the most of the other pieces, where I saw the bodies of young people jet through space, as they leapt with one arm forward and legs spread in the air; the beating of a foot against the knee as a woman hops with her one leg bent in the shape resembling the number 7 against her other straight one, the scurry of young girls across the stage, with their arms free to wave. Enjoyment was manifested in the physicality, as the young boys and girls were dancing in group formations to music of popular songs. Amidst this commotion of many bodies, there were also gem solo moments, such as a girl shaking her omatako in rapid, punctuated movements, which roused roaring cries from the audience.
There was also a Michael Jackson impersonation, a solo performed by a teenage girl. She executed his legendary moves; the fast side steps with the knees bent just a tad and that bouncing of the shoulders and she did all this with such ease that she appeared indifferent to the crowd’s cheers. I would have loved to see her let loose and improvise a little as she reveled in her moment on stage.
Apart from the pieces that were meant to entertain, the choreographers Trixie Munyama and Angelica Schröder presented works that attempted to engage some aspects of being Namibian. Munyama showed a piece set on a group of teenage girls. The girls were initialy all asleep in a clump on stage and then one by one ,they awoke and performed a solo. One girl moved in drudging heavy steps and then sat down with her head over her head and rocked back and forth like a big, angry baby. Another spun around and opened her arms to the sides as if she wanted some type of freedom. For me, Munyama was touching on the tension between childhood and incipient womanhood. This was especially made clear by the backdrop, which was a collage of several newspaper headings about the youth. In addition, sounds of giggling girls that spoke about boys came and went during the piece. At one point, the girls came to dance together, and a song from the contemporary South African pop genre was played, complete with an unmistakably African female voice. As group of girls moved towards center stage, they expanded and contracted theirs chests and thumped their feet in a repeating rhythm. Group dancing dominated for the remained of the piece, with a lot of different movements from the standard modern dance reparatory, like the attitude kick. Unfortunately, the memorable solos from the start of the piece were not reintroduced for further development. Questions remained answered - Who are these girls or women? What is their story? At the end, the group came together, with one girl standing atop the shoulders of the others, with her fist raised in the air, like the SWAPO man. This seemed to be a victory, but because there was so much going earlier, I probably did catch what battle was won. Munyama would do well to hone in on that one element she is engaging, which for me had to do with coming of age. I saw the young girls running across the stage to throw handfuls of sparkly glitter to audience, Africanist dance, modern dance technique and even movements with political echoes. I would love to see one of these developed throughout the whole piece.
Angelica Schröder, however, focused on her Afro-fusion technique in her piece, which mesmerized me. The dancing was in the foreground of a projection of traditional Namibian dancers in grass skirts, from either Kavango or Caprivi. The feet of these men and women furiously struck sandy ground at the center of stadium, surrounded by spectators. Indeed, national celebrations at stadiums are the place and occasion that most of Windhoek’s residents encounter traditional dance. Now it was here, projected on stage, while a young woman also adorning grass skirt dances on the proscenium. But she did not mimic the professionals on the screen. Instead, she carries a basket in her arms and in swooping gestures appears to collecting food, sorting grain from the chaff or offering. Later, she leaves the basket and clicks her heels together in jumps across the stage, in an unmistakable Namastap, which to me resembled the cabriole of ballet. She is joined by a large group of women who dance with their arms, moving them in rippling waves. The contrast between the footwork of the screen and the articulation of arms was captivating. However, what are to make of this? We only fully grasp Schröder’s aim when she herself performs as a silhouette superimposed on the footage of the traditional dance. The shadow moves fluidly, the muscles of the whole arm gesticulating in wide caresses of the spaces above her. I remember how she bent backwards, with her breast to the sky, as if she was imploring the heavens with her arms. This fluidity was punctuated by sharp jumps with both legs, as if she was plucked from the floor by waist, and wide arcs of an extended leg through the space and bouncy steps of the feet in effervescent rhythms. This improvisation of Schröder, which employed West Africa styles, demonstrated with great ebullience what how one can expand and manipulate our local dance vocabulary, by mixing styles of ‘the West’, with that of West Africa and our own.
Reflections of Us was an eye opener into the creativity of Namibian choreographers who have ingeniously incorporated their art into a dance recital of the only conservatory in Namibia, the college of the Arts. Without being pretentious, they delivered entertainment and something more to think about.
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