Gatekeeper Dance Review 2010

Dance is supposed to leave something behind. After a performance is long over, I think back to the images of moving bodies that remain etched in my mind. So it is after more than three weeks since the performance of “Gatekeeper” by “The First Rain Dance Company” that I write my reflections on the performance.

I remember seeing the dance open on the proscenium stage. People at different spaces doing different things. A woman at the fore turns one leg and reaching forward to go around while her back leg tails in the air behind her. A young ballerina? A man sleeps, another woman stomps backwards furiously and comes down to the hit the ground with her fists, while another lets her chest jut to the floor while her back legs goes up like a scorpions tail. All the while a tall man walks around these characters, enclosing them in a rectangle of a sand trail along his path. What is going on? Then one by one, starting with the ballerina, they begin to walk with long legs, plodding each of slowly in front of the other. Very much aerial, they move like a line of slender giraffes to one corner of the stage. I guess this animalistic feelings unites these diverse characters, as well as there black roman soldier style skirts and red ribbon around one leg.

The musical accompaniment to this opening section is a mere array of sounds, clicks, whines and myriad of other articulations of the mouth, by Lize Ehlers. Quite original and unheard of in what was meant to be a dance performance at the National Theatre. That is why I say it seemed the dancers were doing something and I would have loved to see that story develop. Instead, what followed was a series of dances to set musical accompaniments, where it was evident they were dancing. I saw pyramidal formations, of dancers shift through space in hops, skits and slides typical of modern dance. Somehow it evoked the dances of Jerome Robbins in West Side story, and I wonder whether the choreographer of Gate Keeper, Hamisch Olivier, found inspiration in Robbins. The only thing that reminded me of that captivating opening was the way things were often done in series. They would do a movement, like rolling backwards, one by one. And I noticed differences – while some rolled with long legs end in feet as sharp as still, others had softly bent knees and relaxed feet. Why such a difference? Was there a meaning to these differences, or where the dancers just performing it differently? Did some just loose their balance on leg before the others or did Olivier want us to notice the differences in how long they held one foot up their behind the other knee, before coming down? Beats me.

It seems with each piece of music, the dances attempted to show something different. They can follow the music, even if means stomping their heels close to the ground to keep with the time and languidly stepping in a zig-zag pattern that ballerinas would do in lightning speed. There were jumps, some of them high with jagged legs curving behind the back of the dancer. But I have seen people jump higher and break the stillness of the air at the top. In short, I’ve been there, seen that. What is that this company, that aims to integrate contemporary dance with Namibian dance forms, brought for me? In the ending, I see a return of the animalistic sense, where some dances creep away while others walk with those long giraffe like steps. And the last dancer to leave caught my eye as she darted her head from one side to the other, her writs limp and hands held as paws, like some mouse-like creature, before running of stage. Here was something intriguing. I would have like to have seen it developed along the lines of Netherland Dance Theatre’s “Journey to the Stomping Ground” where the dancers mimicked different animal movements inspired by Australian aboriginal dances. I think that would have been interesting for the director of the French Cultural Center, who commissioned Olivier to create “Gatekeeper” as a Namibian contemporary dance work. I doubt he would want to see a replica or mediocre imitation of contemporary dance of Europe or the Americas. After all, the aim of French funding is to develop local art for the purpose of bringing local and world audiences something unique. I did see something unique in that performance and that is what I have chosen to remember.

Endnote:

“Gatekeeper” performed at the National Theatre of Namibia show titled “Fractures” on December 6^th, Windhoek, Namibia

Stephanus Chirche Mid December

“You’re so beautiful” said the Damara man, this black Namibian man, as he smiled at me. “Thank you, you too, “ I replied rather flattered, not knowing what to say. Just a few moments later I gave him a hug and he embraced me, his arms clutching at my torso the way a woman hugs. I could tell that he was of my persuasion. He wore tight blue genes and I could see red, chapped nailpolish on his toes that protruded from his sandals. It was a summer morning that we met, so we both wore sandals. I needed to encourage him, he had walked all this way from Okandja park just to where we stood in KleinWindhoek. He was searching for donations.

“Why do are looking for donations” I yelled behind him as he walked away. He turned and smiled “For what are the donations?” I ask again and he approaches me. I came to understand that it was for his Church “ Paulus //Gowaseb” in Okahandja Park. That place is a shanty town on the edge of Windhoek, I think to myself. And this gay man goes there? I was not certain of whether he was gay. He may have been transgender or perhaps bisexual. But from the way he spoke English and his whole demeanor, he fit the mould a Damara gay – the stereotypical black Namibian man. They needed donations for a trip to Swakopmund on Christmas day – just over one week away. “How do I know this is a real Church and you are not just collecting for yourself?” I interrogated, but with a smile on my face. “That is why I have this cellphone,” he said holding an outdated green screen phone. “You can call this number” he said pointing to a name of a donor – some man with a German sounding name – and a landline number. He tried to explain to me his reasoning, but I could tell from the way he spoke in spurts – starting and stopping – that the problem was English. So I asked him in Afrikaans and he gave me quite believable explanation. I barely understood it, because I bet he used the Afrikaans words for “trutworthiness” and “accountability”, which I do not remember right now.

I cannot even remember this man’s name. He was no older than 25 and he had gone to Church that day in Okahandja park. Thereafter, he promptly walked more fifteen kilometers at least from Okahandja park – on the Western outskirts of our city – to the eastern suburb of Klein Windhoek. Klein Windhoek is like the upper east side of New York city in the sense that people that high flying financially live there. He was not alone, there a girl with him, but she stood a little ahead of us, close to the Nandos take away. “…She has the pen..” he answered when I asked him if I could sign my name on the sponshorship form..” but I told him to not bother with that. What was two dollars anyway? To me there was just change, but I am sure to him they meant much.

“Not even one dollar” he uttered with a touch of desperation, after I said “no” to his request for donations. I was reading my newspaper on the corner of the service station and why did he have to come up to me? Just another one of those skelm beggars. But wait, I see from the sway in his stride and the contour of his legs inside those jeans that this man is moffie, just like me! Moffies don’t cheat! So I decided I to run after him and find out more about these donations he wants.

Earlier that Sunday morning I had just come from Stefanuschirche. I spoke with the woman pastor or priest, as a man from the Church told me earlier. “When she is in the service, she is a priest and I guess when she comes out she is a pastor.” He explained when I asked him about the Church. Does this women actually play two gender roles during and after the service or what exactly did this man mean? Perhaps in German they have two different words to describe a clergy(wo)man during and after the service.

This woman was very much like a priest and I understood what she was doing, even though she recited in German. As she went through the motions of holding up the small white circle bread body of Christ, she uttered German words that filled the room. Her voice was most soothing to listen to. Unusually, she made German so peaceful, the words coming out in mellifluous streams, with zzzs and kks and rrs that were soft and non militarized. So here I am in this Church and I realize that life is beautiful. The room is beautiful in its entire gay splendor. Purple and red smoke intermingled on the walls and before us was an image of Christ on the cross in a blue green hue. Him on the cross on red brown hill, while his spirit like image in warm yellow hues that meld into the warmth of a sunset looks straight at us.The whole room exudes soothing cool colors like the freshness of her German words. German is cold and really refreshing. Who says that just because I had all planned out – to go to Spain or France next year and study in those languages was God’s Will. Oh my Jesus, let your will be done. What if I were to learn German?

I came to the Stefanuschirche in search of a man. I heard that this was an open minded Church from my gay friend Fanni Dorling – a choirmaster – and I believed him. When I entered and found only a handful of people, most of them old women with just one young, albeit, straight couple, I knew I would find my man today. But this Churched was definitely for us queers, just by looking at the people who led the service – three women clad in white and blue priest like attire. Well, might as well stay and see what I can discover.

Writing around Christmas 2010

“Write Pancho, Write” she said as I watched “Anchor Away” on the TCM channel, focused on the scene of a several pianists playing furiously at the same time

I noticed she said write – I remembered then that I had wanted to go and write before the TV grabbed my attention.

“Write? Write what?”

“Write whatever draws you” was the response, but of course we spoke in Bulgarian and my translation is but a mere approximation of the meaning of what she actually said. (pi6i tova koeto te vulnuva, mi kaza tq I neznam koi e na tochnia prevod tuka, mojebi “whatever excites you” ili “impassions you”)

So here I am, typing away. What will I write? I have quite a number of things I penned down in notebooks over the past few months, especially during my trip to the North of Namibia the last two weeks. But I think I will start by writing my story of seeking a man at a local (or actually quite distant) grocery store and the outcome. But in Spanish.

Perhaps one of you can translate it.

Or I will write about the suicide that happened in my neighborhood. On my street, on a house on the same side as ours. LIBRA. In large black capital letters was the first thing they showed on the news after reporting on the suicide. That was the street sign on the corner of our street. Then they showed the wide open street, with our house on the left, before they moved to show the house where it occurred. Yup, surburbia. Urban decay.

And this happened just two days before Christmas day! Tomorrow, I will bake a cake and bring it to the like a good neighbor should. That is what good neighbors do. So I will omit my mistake of going Christmas caroling just outside their house on Christmas Eve singing “Feliz Navidad” as people started and turned away from inside the yard or just gave me a quick expressionless look as they accompanied friends to their cars. That was I guess a mistake. Nonetheless, a young man came from the house to greet me. He affirmed the importance of what I was doing, but made it clear that people were not going to appreciate it, not now. He was calm and warm. “Yeah she committed suicide” he said quite coldly. Why was he visibly calm? How could he even talk to me? Were I a family member, I would not even be able to face the world.

Tonight they had a real big memorial service. Cars parked outside our house, on the other end of the street, round the bend of Andromeda street and right to the end of Libra Street, where the house is, right up to the dead end – the cul de sac. What does the house being close to a dead end have to do with it? Nothing.

I planned to be terse in this post. I have rather been quite exhaustive.

Yet still brief. Life is what happens to you while you are making plans, John Lennon you were so right.

Human Rights day

Human Rights Day

This post is dedicated to Danny Llewelyn, Amanda Jane Howard and Efe.

Human Rights day is today in Namibia and this means a public holiday. I am formally unemployed, but please people, note that I still have stuff to do. One of them being math, since I have to keep my mind in shape for when I start my epidemiology degree (in 2011 or 2012). There will be a mathematical discussion in this post and so Danny brace yourself…

So this has been a fairly relaxing day so far. Great in fact. I do not have to think about writing something for money (for the Flamingo Magazine) or contacting the center for disease control and prevention in Namibia about a scientific presentation for the sentinel survey results or to claim my money for the meeting I attended for the Namibia HIV Clinicians Society. The best of course is not having to worry about being inefficient and packing as much into my day as possible. I have just been at home, in the living room, in the kitchen, sitting room and rude to my mother.

I have been rude to her lately. What is it about me? I believe it’s because my family took a rather dysfunctional turn at the end of last year (this time) when my father moved out. My mother was initially not coping well with this – with his life in open infidelity and the fact she wanted to know “the truth” about my sexuality made things worse. I came out to her and she does not accept it. Not that she rejects me as son. She does not believe it. It being my homosexuality. My brother believes but he does not really care. Any piece of advice I even try to give him is struck down by comments such as “no you are gay, there is nothing you can tell me.” Once we are in the dinning /kitchen area of the house and again they raised the topic – my sexuality. I tried to tell him about how I have faith as a gay person but I ended up bursting out in laughter when he said, quite ironically:

“Unfortunately, you are going to hell.”

My 18 year old brother, I adore to him. Some of you know I love dwelling on things that crack me up and I have been dwelling on this one since two months ago.

Well I constantly struggle with being civil to my mother, since she provides me with free accommodation and even money (in spite of my protests – I want some sort of independence!). I am becoming more patient with her and yesterday we had a great time. I ignored her outburst about my father and instead started singing to her – as if we were in a musical – and she indulged me in song. She hates musicals with a passion, but we made fun of the idea by talking in song.

Danny, remember how much the 5 pound coin with the Queen’s image made me laugh? I can barely remember what was so funny about it. Now we have 10 dollar note with the image of our founding president Sam Nujoma. Somehow, it is just not that funny.

So I did do some human rights campaigning today. I sent a petition to the Slovak Republic that I got signed back in July. It is about scholarships that Slovakia offers to Namibian students with the condition that all applicants furnish their HIV test results. Clearly a blatant slap in the face of human rights and efforts to destigmatize HIV.

You can find this at my other “professional” blog: writinghealth.wordpress.com

One thing I want to write about here is how I am now officially an openly gay man. And I am looking! Honestly, I believe it is time I change my facebook status; First of all, I will have to divorce myself from you Amanda, my wife (Mi español influye mucho en mi ingles, no se dice “divorce yourself” en ingles, sino “divorce” con rispecto a divorzarse en español) . I remember accepting your proposal for a facebook marriage “Pancho do you want to have a facebook marriage” you said with a grin in that dormitory of yours in Scully and of course I accepted. But times have changed. I cannot be a man on “the down low”. Its time I tell you – I am gay! I know this may come as a shock to you and your whole construction of me as the epitome of masculinity, but please allow me the freedom to find a partner. So please let us have a facebook divorce.

I want you guys to join the new social networking site called “1love.org”. It was started just this week in the memory of Bob Marely and I think it allows people to connect while giving to charities around the world. There are some great shots of Bob Marely too.

So that is how I came to think of you – Efe – today. I remember you told me how much you liked Bob Marely when I visited you that night in your room in Lourie Love Hall. That moment is no more and that building, that room, no longer exist in space, but I still remember how I ended up in your arms. I needed affection and I knew I could get it from you, because you kept on asking me “come to my room, come to my room” that whole first semester of sophomore year. It was the toughest semester for me at Princeton and perhaps we could have faced it together as an item. That, however, is another “if only” moment and as the French say “avec si on peut mettre Paris dans une boteille” (with “if” we can put Paris in a bottle).

So Efe, I do remember you, quite fondly. Since that time in your room, I saw only from time to time, but I never thought of you romantically. Nonetheless, I also avoided you because I feared I would go “all the way” with you and so I kept my distance. I also was not head over heels in love with you. But then I was not with anyone. Since my freshman year, I found a way of looking a gorgeous men and seeing their humanity. Effectively, I saw them as they were – imperfect, ugly, human beings and then any crushes faded away.

So (the third so in this series), I want to ask you how you are doing. I imagine you may be writing poetry someplace in a far away city. You are truly romantic. Your poetry, your collection of poetry (remember the Bulgarian poets whose books I brought you? Who were they again – remind me? If we meet again, under whatever circumstances, I hope I can read those poems to you). There is really something so alluring about the way you talk and express yourself. I imagine you are thinking (nearly two years have passed since we talked and now this guy wants to get in touch with me?) I agree. I am not expecting a reply. I will keep you in prayers, because I need to also figure out how I feel about you. Know this: I want to find out – whether or not anything will be possible, a meeting, a letter, an email. I cannot say I am in love with you, but truly speaking, my spirit longs for you. But “if this is love that I am feeling”, I would like to hear from you, because “I don’t want to wait in vain for your love”.

Time for Math:

So Danny, I am so glad that you wrote to me. At the time I was just again exploring math.

Today in Namibia, or at least in my part of Windhoek, a bear got married. What I mean is that it rained on a bright day. In Bulgarian we have a saying “rain is falling, sun is shinning, a bear is getting married”. I went outside topless jogging with my dog, Snowy. She loves the exercise (she is overweight cause we feed her with our leftovers) and I wanted to exercise my human right of jogging without a shirt on in Windhoek. Were I a woman, I would have done it all the same. I mean literally, in Namibia, there are women who walk around topless. These, however, are dressed in traditional wear and usually have red ochre on their skin – the Ovahimba. In 2008 I went up to an Ovahimba village for about a week to do a study on the relationship between the recreational and spiritual dance of these people. It was cool (I kept a diary that I may transcribe for this blog one day).

But here is the math, I am loosing sight:

Well, what if you had four cups in a row, all different color and you wanted to see where the first five rain drops fell. Imagine that raindrops only fell one at a time at these cups. How many ways are there of dropping these first five raindrops? All we care is the water we find in these cups after the five raindrops have come down. Imagine, we could have all five drops in cup number 1 or we could have one drop in each cup or we could have some other distribution of drops. I found out you can use a type of graph theory to answer this question . First you draw five lines evenly spaced from each other – the space between these lines is a cup – you have four cups. There | | | | | you see the four cups? Then you put in 0s for the drops | 00000 | | | | - this is the case when all five go in the first cup. Now what you have to do is count the number of configurations possible. Well you use combination counting. Basically, you notice that the two outer | | are the borders of the row of cup and inside you have 5 0s and 3 |s Then the problems amounts to how many ways can you arrange the 5 0s and the 3 |s. This meants having 8 spaces, where each space can accommodate any one of the eight items (5 0s and 3|s). If we place all the 0s, we automatically know where to place the |s and vice versa. So we can just think of it as 8 choose 3 or 8 choose 5 (8 factorial over 3 factorial times 5 factorial). Its that easy!

But my question now is what if we had instead of 5 raindrops, 3 raindrops and 2 pebbles. How do we work that problem? So now we have in between the borders | |. 3 0s 2 * (* denoting pebble) and 3 |s.

I think I have an idea – you first do the placement of one of the items and the other. I first place the 0s and I know I have 8 choose three ways of doing that. Then I left with 5 open spaces where I have to place my 3 *s and 3 |s. Now I can place the pebbles 5 choose 3 number of ways, and that also places all my |s. So the answer, by counting theorem is 8 choose 3 multiplied 5 choose 3. Does that make sense, since I do one activity (placing the 0s ) before the other (placing he*s) and the total ways of doing activity A made up of doing activity 1 followed by activity 2 is n1 x n2, where ni denotes the number of ways you could do activity i.

Here I am confident of being correct, but I would appreciate your imput.

Ok have to go!

Love

PANCHO. I am going off to see a movie screening at a house an American Expat who lives practically in my neighborhood. This morning I jogged over to his house – quite a beautiful pink villa (he is married, come on people no, pink is perhaps the color his wife likes) and he saw me, invited me and showed me his paradise of a garden with its bonzi trees.

Take Care

Pancho