A Dancer's Guide to Africa

by Terez Mertes Rose

  “Oh this is so great,” I said, circling around. “I can’t believe how bright it is.” I began to run.

  I have to dance. There was no further thought process involved—I simply began dancing, grand jeté leaps across the endless lawn, chassé sautés into tour jetés. I danced down the length of the enormous lawn, feeling cleansed, safe again. It wasn’t pure ballet; I broke the rules by mixing in cartwheels, running, hops and skips. I whooped as I leapt back to William, who laughed.

  “You’re like something out of A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” he called out.

  “One of those fairy sprites—that’s it exactly!” Impulsively I took off again and repeated the same quirky passage. And again. It felt great. Being winded, with burning calf muscles, felt great.

  I returned to William’s side. “Sorry about that,” I said as I caught my breath. “It’s a dancer’s compulsion.”

  “It was fun to watch. I can’t believe I didn’t know you were a ballet dancer.”

  “Yeah, I’ve kept that part of my life pretty compartmentalized since arriving in Africa. Christophe was the only one to discover it, back in Lambaréné. He used to come watch me.”

  We’re not going there, Fiona.

  “Did you dance professionally?” William asked.

  “No, I wasn’t nearly good enough for that.”

  “Sure looked like it to me.”

  I seized the opportunity to think about ballet and not Christophe. “I know how good the real deal is, from watching a friend who went professional. Her name’s April and she’s a soloist with the American Ballet Theatre. I met her back in Omaha, when I was seven and brand new to ballet. She was amazing. You could see, even then, that she was destined for the big time.”

  “How so?”

  “Let’s see. Perfect turnout, arched feet, long legs, short torso, narrow chest, high extensions. Great musicality—she literally was like poetry in motion. Of course she was gone from Omaha in no time. By fourteen, she was living in New York, having been accepted on scholarship to the School of American Ballet.”

  “That’s big, huh?”

  “Huge. Every aspiring ballet dancer’s dream school.”

  “Fourteen, wow. You have to be pretty ambitious and focused to make that all work.”

  “You do. She was like my sister, Alison, in that way. Alison was Miss Nebraska in 1984—did I ever tell you that?”

  “Fi, no way!”

  It showed how comfortable I’d grown around William, to have told him that. But he’d told me about his sisters—he was the only boy in a family with three sisters—so it seemed only fair. “April and Alison were in the same grade at school, too. But April was my friend, not Alison’s.” A chuckle slipped out. “I used to fantasize that they’d been switched at birth, and that April, not Alison, was my true sister.”

  He began to chuckle, too. “You remind me of my sister, Katie. All full of passion and strong opinions.”

  “Sounds like me, all right. It drives my family crazy.”

  “That’s a big family for you. Everyone taking their turn driving the others crazy.”

  “You know, I think you’re right. Why hadn’t I thought of it that way before?”

  “You needed my wisdom to show you the way.”

  We both laughed and slipped into a companionable silence as we trudged on.

  At my doorstep, he wished me a good night. “I’m leaving super early tomorrow, so I’ll say goodbye as well.”

  “Okay.” I smiled at him. “Good to see you. When do you think you’ll be back in town?”

  “Next Saturday afternoon, probably. Wanna meet up?”

  “Sure! Let’s call it a plan.”

  My good spirits lasted until I was alone again, settling into my bedroom. Then I remembered Christophe nearby. And Lisette even closer to Christophe. I had a hunch it was going to be a long night for all of us.

  Chapter 18

  I lay awake half the night, sick with the knowledge that Christophe was quite possibly in bed with my friend. I couldn’t believe I’d all but assured Lisette it wouldn’t matter to me. The worst part, I knew, would be seeing Christophe the following morning, all relaxed and smiling. I didn’t want to be around for it.

  I had to get out of there.

  I needed an accomplice. Not Lisette, certainly, since she was another one I was desperate to escape. Not William, who, although he could provide transportation when he left in the morning, would discourage any impulsive, hurtful behavior. The situation required someone who lacked moral righteousness, who didn’t take anything too seriously. As dawn stained the eastern sky, I rose from my bed. Once I heard William’s truck start up and drive away, I mounted my bicycle and headed into town, passport and cash tucked into my backpack.

  Lance’s house was an anonymous, peeling white structure four blocks from the market. Goats rummaged around the door, grunting and snuffling through the overgrown weeds. They skittered away as I approached and pounded on the door. Lance showed up, bleary eyed and confused.

  “Good morning,” I said, pushing past him into the house.

  “Fiona, are you crazy? It’s not even seven o’clock. It’s a Sunday.”

  “Get dressed. And grab your passport.”

  He perked up. “Where are we going?”

  “Cameroon.”

  Most of the Bitam market still lay asleep in the aftermath of Saturday night, but the taxi-brousses were running. Lance and I hopped in the back of one headed north and within thirty minutes, we were moving.

  I escaped, I thought, with the jittery glee of a kid playing hide and seek. I’d forgotten how intoxicating it felt to run away. I knew Christophe was going to be furious with me and I didn’t care. Right then, I longed to hurt him as much as he was hurting me. Why did you have to come back? I wanted to scream at him. I was happy, I was finally getting over you.

  Lance’s company was the perfect antidote to my mood. He made friends with all the people sharing the back of the taxi-brousse and soon had them singing rounds of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.” The words after “boat” came out as gibberish, but everyone got the melody and the rounds down perfectly. As rainforest flashed past, the scruffy papas and tiny mamas sang their hearts out, eyes riveted on Lance. I couldn’t stop laughing.

  The border patrol was a breeze and like that, we were in Ambam, Cameroon, less than fifty kilometers from Bitam, but a country away from Christophe. “You know, leaving the country without notifying Libreville is probably against Peace Corps rules,” I told Lance, whose eyes brightened.

  “Cool, we’re AWOL. What should we do first?”

  Ambam was a bustling market town, smaller than Bitam, but full of animated people dressed in colorful, traditional attire who milled around the stalls and shops, chattering in Fang and French. We got a cup of instant coffee and a buttered baguette in a restaurant-bar and afterward wandered among the rows. The newfound foreignness exhilarated me. The air smelled different—sharper, earthy and tinged with optimism. Even the surrounding rainforest seemed more exotic somehow. At the market stalls, we bought things we could easily find in Bitam, but which seemed so much more intriguing here: music cassettes, bars of soap, pads of paper. In a tremendous coup, we found a stall that sold, curiously, Betty Crocker devil’s food cake mix and 100-pack Dixie paper cups. I bought three of the former; Lance seemed convinced he’d make good use of a pair of the latter.

  On impulse, Lance decided to purchase a mattress for his bed from a merchant nearby. After watching him bump around ineffectually for a while with it, I proposed a lunch break at a nearby bar-restaurant with outdoor seating. The mattress, we discovered, made a comfortable back rest, propped between the restaurant’s exterior wall and our bench beneath an awning. From our spot, we could watch the comings and goings of the market crowd.

  I scored a coup in the beverage department. In addition to the ubiquitous orange soda one found in every restaurant and bar in Gabon, often the only alternative to Regab, this place sold Top Ananas, Camerooni
an pineapple soda. I ordered two. Lance studied the beer bottles on display. “They don’t have Regab,” he said.

  “This isn’t Gabon, what do you expect? Ever wonder why it’s called Re-gab?

  Lance’s eyebrows arched high with astonishment. “Gab for Gabon. I never thought of that before. So, what do I drink here?”

  “I have a hunch they’ll have something similar.”

  The answer was “33” Export, which wasn’t an export at all, but Cameroon-brewed, a brown-bottled equivalent of Regab. Lance was so impressed with the smooth flavor, he decided we should keep our seats after lunch so he could have another.

  “We really should get up and explore, you know,” I said when he’d finished his second and was considering a third. “Take advantage of being in Cameroon.”

  “We are taking advantage of it.” He gestured to my depleted pineapple sodas and his beer bottles. “Cultural appreciation.”

  “The non-liquid kind of cultural appreciation.”

  Lance made no effort to rise. “Know who you remind me of? Jenny, the new community health volunteer in Oyem.”

  “Carmen’s new roommate?”

  Lance nodded.

  “Haven’t met her.”

  “I got to know her in Libreville. She and the three fish-farming volunteers swore in a week after education volunteers did, but our training overlapped there at the end. She’s really smart—got a degree in international development.”

  “And that makes you think of me?”

  Lance laughed. “Oh, no, don’t be silly. It’s just that she always seems so…earnest. But in a nice way,” he hastened to add when he saw my expression.

  I wasn’t sure I liked the idea that Lance had pegged me first and foremost as “earnest.” To prove to him I could be fun and impulsive, I shouted in Fang for two more “33” beers, which made all the Fang speakers nearby crane their necks and stare at me in surprise.

  An open-bed military truck rumbled up next to the market’s center. Once it stopped, a dozen soldiers jumped out and began to prowl around. The reaction was instant; everyone seemed to lower their gaze and busy themselves with their wares, their purchases, rather than meet the soldiers’ eyes. All except for the town fou, who wandered up to them and greeted them cheerily.

  Every town had a fou, it seemed—a crazy guy, his mind gone. This one had matted dreadlocks, dusty, torn Western clothing and an uneven gait. Unlike in the U.S., the crazies seemed to be treated benevolently here. The soldiers, however, ignored him as they glanced around the marketplace before trooping into a nearby restaurant. The fou cackled and waved. Everyone else seemed to heave a collective sigh of relief and go about their business.

  The serving girl brought us the two beers. “Cheers,” I said to Lance, and clinked my bottle against his before taking a sip.

  Lance sipped and set down his bottle. “Hey, what did you think about last night’s conversation? The one about the spirit-dancer guys.”

  “The Gule Wamkulu?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Very interesting.”

  “Sure, to watch, for entertainment. But the rest? I mean, come on. The people seriously think it’s spirits dancing? Their ancestors?” Lance looked skeptical.

  “I think you should never assume you can understand someone else’s spiritual beliefs.”

  “Yes, but don’t you think sometimes African spiritual beliefs are a little far out?”

  “Are you religious at all?” I asked.

  “Sort of. We did the church thing on Sunday as I was growing up.”

  “So, do you believe the Christian dogma, the miracles, the Holy Trinity, the Virgin Mary?”

  “Sure.”

  “There you go. That’s what we believe. That’s what we were raised on.”

  Lance pondered this as he took a swig of beer.

  “Yes, but Christianity is real. It’s proven.”

  This amused me. “Proven?”

  “I believe stuff I hear in a church. I can’t say I believe a dude in a costume and mask, dancing, is animated by anything other than the dude wearing the costume.”

  “Gule Wamkulu!” a voice blared out from behind us.

  Lance and I both jumped in surprise, and looked around.

  The fou had returned. “Gule Wamkulu,” he crowed. “Ah, ntang, oui, oui, c’est vrai! Gule Wamkulu!” He seemed to love the new phrase, even though it was Chichewa and not Fang, repeating it with increasing glee and fervor. Lance began laughing as I regarded the fou in unease.

  He began to pace around. He shook his fisted hands, as if he were playing maracas. “Gule Wamkulu, eh, eh!” He strode from one end of the restaurant patio to the other, repeating his mantra. The other diners turned to regard him indulgently before losing interest. In Lance and me, though, he’d found a rapt—or trapped—audience. He strode right up to our table and leaned in toward me, closer, closer, until we were face to face and I could see the striations of his bloodshot eyes, the tiny freckles on his dark brown cheeks. His smell, a mix of urine and sickly sweet metabolizing alcohol, made me recoil, which made him lean closer.

  “Back off, bud,” I said in English, too rattled for French, much less my limited Fang. “You’re creeping me out. Go away. Shoo!”

  He laughed, delighted, as if he’d understood my words and found them charming. “Vous voyez?” he exclaimed. “Eh, ntang. Oui. Vous voyez. Vous les voyez.” He leaned even closer, and repeated the last words, in a lower, slower voice, as if to emphasize each word.

  You see them.

  I stared at him; it seemed I had no other choice. It felt as though he were sucking me in to his craziness, or maybe he was sane and only pretended to be crazy so that the others would ignore him. Because right then he didn’t look crazy, he looked all-knowing.

  Which, of course, was crazy.

  “Allez vous-en!” The restaurant owner came to our rescue, striding over from the restaurant’s interior. She made shooing motions with her hands as she approached our table, and the man gave one last cackle before dashing away from the restaurant. He disappeared into the crowd within seconds.

  Lance hadn’t stopped laughing. I, meanwhile, felt sick. Dizzy. I drew in a shaky breath, shut my eyes and massaged my temples, as if to keep his words from taking root in my brain.

  I did not see spirits, I sternly told myself, nor did they see me. I had an overactive imagination and I was letting too much of Africa, and African superstition, seep in.

  “That was hilarious,” Lance said.

  “That was creepy,” I said in a shaky voice.

  “What was?”

  “His words.”

  “Which words?”

  I shook my head. “Forget it. It’s too hard to explain.”

  “Fiona, why are you acting spooked? The guy was certifiably bonkers. He was holding a conversation with the air when we arrived. And did you smell the booze on him? Drunk and bonkers. C’mon. That was really pretty funny. And when you spoke to him in English? Omigod. Priceless! I’m going to do that the next time a fou hassles me in Bitam. It was the perfect way to respond.”

  The creepy feeling began to dissipate. Lance was right.

  Gradually my pulse returned to normal. I glanced at my watch. “It’s getting late. We should see about getting a taxi-brousse back to Bitam.”

  “Aww, c’mon. One more beer? I’m having a ball.”

  I hesitated. “You’re a bad influence, you know that?”

  “Me? You’re the one who woke me up early to go AWOL with you.”

  “That’s true. And thank you, for joining me.”

  “You owe me,” he said.

  “No, I don’t!”

  “Let’s stay for one more beer and we’ll call it even,” he proposed.

  “Deal.”

  An hour later, we rose unsteadily and regarded the sagging mattress. “I’ve got a great idea that will give us some shade as we walk,” I said.

  I sensed we were a source of entertainment to the people we passed. “Treinte-tr
ois, thirty-three,” we bellowed to them, in case people hadn’t already figured out why we were staggering and singing, a mattress balanced on our heads. Once in a taxi-brousse, an hour later, we laid the mattress on the floor of the truck and let the kids sit on it. The two goats aboard loved it. After the truck started moving, Lance pulled out a bag to reveal three “33” Export beers he’d bought at the bar. “A souvenir,” he said. He turned to the others in the back. “Beer, anyone?”

  He’d spoken in English, but they understood. Soon, all three beers had been pried opened—the locals knew how to open one with the lid of another, and for the final beer, a tiny Gabonese mama opened the bottle with her teeth, which Lance and I found equal parts entertaining and horrifying. Lance pulled out one of his Dixie Cup packets, with a smug, see? I knew I’d use these expression to me, and distributed cups all around. A dozen of us shared the beers, laughing and sipping, as Cameroon flashed by.

  The sun had begun sinking when I arrived back at the mission, having retrieved my bicycle from Lance’s after the mattress delivery. A quick glance at the pebbled drive and its lack of cars told me Christophe had left. Of course he had. I made my way slowly toward my house, all good spirits gone. On the far side of the grounds, I could see that the lights in Lisette’s house were on.

  What was I going to say to my friend? Were we still friends?

  How good it had felt, this morning, to run. How tiring, now, as if I’d literally been running the whole time.

  At the least, it had served one purpose. I didn’t have to worry that the hunger to get re-involved with Christophe would return. Nor, I knew, would he ever try again. I swallowed a pang that arose within me. I’d have to stay away from Libreville, from his wrath. Bitam was my home, anyway, and the safest place for me.

  I went into my house, turned on the lights, and sank into an armchair wearily.

  Five minutes later, a knock sounded. I opened the door to find Lisette there. Her expression was unreadable.