A Dancer's Guide to Africa

by Terez Mertes Rose

  “…shouldn’t try so hard to understand animism,” Christophe was saying. “Or any of the local religions or traditional beliefs, for that matter. It only serves to complicate the Westerner’s expatriate experience. Like your colleague, Joshua,” he added. “He’s gotten too involved in bwiti.”

  “You mean he went through an initiation?” William asked, and Christophe nodded.

  Taking a near-lethal dose of iboga in the process. I drew in a sharp breath. “Whoa, that was risky. Does Chuck know?”

  “I’m inclined to say no,” Christophe said. He shook his head. “I can’t understand why you Americans do things like this. You have everything—good families, college educations, employment opportunities. Why do you have to go searching for trouble like this?”

  “It’s not trouble,” I retorted. “It’s getting to know our host culture.”

  “There are things about African culture that will defy a Westerner’s attempts to understand it,” Christophe said. “Digging deeper invariably results in problems.”

  Even though William had maintained his chilliness toward me, we were still on the same page here. “It doesn’t mean we aren’t compelled to try,” he argued. “We value curiosity, learning, thinking outside the box. Some of us are restless, curious. Questions rise up and we seek out answers.”

  The drummers recommenced, which ended the conversation. William looked like he could have happily argued politics and religion with Christophe all evening, or discussed the merits of palm wine, or village life, or African clothing. Anything besides looking at me. Swallowing my hurt, I returned to my own seat by Bintou and Moussa.

  The entertainment began in earnest. The drummers quickly developed a full-sounding rhythm, irresistible to listen to, mesmerizing to watch. Célèste and her women rose and began to dance. Initially it was the kind of dancing I’d seen from my protected spot: a subtle movement originating from the hips, knees bent to support side-to-side stepping. But soon it grew more complex, the women engaging their entire bodies, arms flung in tandem, heads flung back, feet a brisk, moving pattern. Energy flowed from the women, from their core. Admiration swelled within me. Not only did the women dance with great proficiency, it was in perfect unison. It came, I sensed, not from rehearsing so much as having the same deeply ingrained intention. Their blissed-out expressions told me they weren’t trying to perform so much as allow this force to flow from within them. I’d never felt so envious of their African-ness, the unquestioned ability to dance so beautifully, so organically. As I watched them, my own muscles tensed, quads and abdominals straining, vicariously engaged in what I was watching.

  That was all I wanted to do: watch. But during a break that followed, Célèste came over with two of her dancers and invited Bintou, Lisette and me to join them. Bintou and Lisette rose with ready smiles.

  Dismay washed over me. I did ballet. Not this.

  “You, too,” Célèste said to me, and the other two dancers nodded.

  I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

  “Fiona,” Lisette said. “We dance now.”

  “I can’t dance that way,” I said to her through gritted teeth.

  “Then you can dance your own charming American way.”

  As if.

  “Please. Come with us to dance,” one of Célèste’s dancers encouraged.

  Seeking a like-minded ally, I turned to William. “Guillaume, tell them it’s not that easy for a white person to just get up there and dance. During a time of mourning, to boot.”

  William looked decidedly unsympathetic. “You’re a dancer, Fiona. I think your argument falls short. And here in Gabon, dance is a part of mourning.”

  “Fiona.” Célèste had never addressed me by my first name before, and it made it harder to avoid her piercing gaze. “It is time that you dance. The guest of honor has requested it.”

  I turned to Christophe, shocked. His expression was unreadable.

  “You told Célèste to come over here and persuade me?” I asked him. “Which is to say, insist on it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?” I protested.

  “You need to dance again,” Christophe said.

  “Stop acting up, Fiona,” Lisette hissed. “You’re drawing attention.”

  I glared at her and Christophe both. “Fine. I am beyond uncomfortable here,” I told Christophe. “But I’ll do this for you, and in honor of your mother.”

  He studied me. “Thank you. And believe it or not, I’m doing this for you.”

  “Oh, right,” I spat.

  “We dance now?” Célèste asked me.

  It would appear I had no choice. I rose. “Yes. We dance now.”

  I trailed behind all the women, feeling cold in spite of the humid warmth. The crackling bonfire up close seemed more ominous than festive. Sparks shot upward before disappearing. One spark flew out toward me, a warning of sorts. I wanted to run the other way, down the path and to the safety of my house. Instead I followed the dancing women’s movements, their hips, the bend of their knees, the pattern their feet made.

  Of course I stumbled, which brought the expected laughter from the other women. But it was good-natured laughing, more supportive than judgmental. In many ways, it was like my early ballet classes, watching April move and wanting so much to move that way, that everything in me grew quiet and focused, intent on discovering where the movement originated, getting it wrong over and over, if need be, in pursuit of getting it right.

  So I got it wrong, and observed, got it wrong, and observed. I modified my own movements, made them smaller, more economical. I became intensely curious, determined to learn, relentless in my pursuit of kinetic discovery. At some point I realized Lisette and Bintou had returned to their seats. It didn’t matter. The music kept going.

  Which meant the dancer kept dancing.

  Chapter 26

  In March, the pen pals replied. I brought the enormous box with me into the classroom the following day and the students crowded around my desk. “Sit down,” I called out over the hubbub, “or we don’t open the box.” The students shot back to their seats.

  I ripped into the box. Food came out first: a bag of tortilla chips, two sacks of miniature Snickers bars, licorice, hard candy and chewing gum. The students squirmed in their seats, frantic with excitement. When I passed the food out, they tore into the candy bars, stuffing them into their mouths. The tortilla chips were eaten more tentatively, but nothing American could be bad, in their minds. They crunched the unfamiliar triangles, testing the nacho cheese flavor before pronouncing it acceptable.

  Then came the gifts. Thirty wildly decorated pencils, thirty ballpoint pens featuring Scooby Doo cartoon characters. Pads of flowered paper, spiral notebooks, stickers of puppies, kittens and clowns. When I held up several Hot Wheels cars, the boys leapt out of their seats and hurried forward. I had to shoo them back down. The girls reacted the same when I pulled out tiny bottles of cheap perfume and fruit-scented lotion. And still I pulled out more: balloons, magic markers, comic books. The students were slack-jawed at the sight of the treasures from their new friends.

  “It is true then, Miss Fiona,” Mathieu, one of Célèste’s sons, exclaimed. “All Americans are very, very rich.”

  “No, no,” I protested, “these things cost very little in the U.S.—anyone could afford them.” This, of course, only impressed them further.

  The enclosed letters, one for each student, provided further cross-cultural education. The American students’ questions were as entertaining as my students’ had been. “What is it like to live in the jungle? Are you always sweaty?” Or, “I have a pet rat named Herb. Do you have a pet?”

  “Miss Fiona,” Sophie asked, her voice tentative, “what is ‘pet’ word meaning, please?” All eyes were on me, eager for the response, as almost every American student seemed to have mentioned a pet as a member of the family.

  Pets, aside from stray dogs that hung around neighborhoods, did not exist in provincial Gabon. The Fang were known to e
at cat. My translation of “animal familier” didn’t seem to help my students. “Please, Miss Fiona,” another student tried, “how does one say ‘rat’ in French?”

  “Le rat.”

  Her face reflected her confusion. “A rat is a member of her family?”

  “What’s your favorite food?” also puzzled my students. My explanation of the cultural importance of McDonalds and Hostess snack foods, Pizza Hut and hot dogs (“No, they aren’t really made of dog”) fell short. The students nodded their heads politely, straining to understand.

  Equally foreign to them was the concept of listing off one’s assets. “I’ve got a ten-speed bike.” “My dad owns a Porsche.” “My best friend has a swimming pool in his backyard.” The American students described themselves and their lives through their material belongings. That, I realized with a jolt, was how we Americans defined ourselves.

  But there was one great perk to the materialism of the American students. Sophie had received an extra gift attached to her letter—a small jewelry box. Inside was an exquisite gold comb, with tiny iridescent butterflies affixed at the top. When I’d sent off the original letters, I’d attached a note to Sophie’s scrawled attempt. “Please give her someone special,” I’d written to my former teacher. Apparently Sophie had acquired not only a special pen pal, but a generous one as well. Sophie pulled the gold comb out of its box and stared at it fearfully. She looked up at me and frowned.

  “This is mine?” she asked, her voice tense. I nodded. Her eyes narrowed at me in mistrust, but when I remained silent, she gave me a curt nod and looked back down. She stroked the butterflies gently with the tips of her fingers. The students sitting around her noticed Sophie’s prize and clustered around her desk, clamoring to see. When Sophie pushed the comb into her hair, all the girls cried out in admiration. A smile broke through Sophie’s broad, somber face. Seeing the way her eyes shone, I felt tears rise in the back of my throat. If I’d accomplished nothing else right during my two years here, I told myself, I’d done this.

  It had been a good day for personal mail, as well: two letters. The first was a blue international aerogramme from my ballet buddy April in New York. We’d been exchanging letters ever since last year when Alison gave her my address. This one was short, two paragraphs dashed off in April’s scribbled handwriting that made me smile, visualizing her between rehearsals, or killing time in her dressing room before a performance, sharing what was so glamorous to me and probably seemed everyday to her. Changes might be forthcoming in her world, she shared, which made her nervous, but she had me as a role model as someone who’d flourished through big changes. Reading this, I chuckled. Oh, if April only knew how close I’d come to failing, time and time again.

  The second letter came from Kaia, the fish volunteer posted south of Oyem.

  Hey, I have a favor to ask. Can you come to my village some weekend for a visit? I could use your support in standing strong against my farmer’s troublemaking nephew. Maybe a Friday arrival and a Saturday morning visit to my farmer’s pond?

  Thanks, and I hope to see you in the next month or two!

  I smiled. Finally, my chance to help someone, the way Christophe had helped me last year. I walked right over to my desk and pulled out pen and paper.

  Hi Kaia,

  Yes, I am more than happy to help you! Maybe a few weeks from now? Send me your preferred date and we’ll make it happen.

  Hang in there, and see you soon!

  Fiona

  Chapter 27

  March was the month William stopped visiting. It was also the height of the rainy season with daily downpours, searing heat, choking humidity, and mud that clogged the roads, my shoes and bicycle wheels. As I trudged back to the mission following my attempts to mail a box, my thoughts returned to William and how much I missed him. The first two weekends after his and Christophe’s visit I’d listened with hope for the distinct rattle of his truck, to no avail. The third weekend, I’d put in a day of work into my library project, certain that he’d swing by the mission if he came to Bitam.

  No William. I’d swallowed my crushing disappointment and comforted myself with the knowledge that I’d see him the Saturday of Alison’s wedding. He’d promised, and William never forgot his promises.

  I shifted the unwieldy box in my arms, took a misstep and went skating across a patch of mud. As I struggled with windmilling arms to keep myself upright, the box from the pen pals to the U.S. sailed from my hands and landed with a plop in a puddle. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I hadn’t been able to mail it because I’d filled out the wrong form—twice, according to two different clerks. By the time I’d had the right form and the right clerk and waited my turn for the third time, the director, whose signature was required, had left for the day. I’d invested two hours of my time and patience with nothing to show for it. It seemed par for the course these days.

  But I could handle it all, because I had dance again.

  Christophe had been right, in the end. When Célèste had seen me return to the drum circle the following Saturday night, she’d chuckled and nodded. She’d likely had me pegged all along.

  I found myself rediscovering little dance secrets, such as the way I could use the other dancers’ movements to assist me in mine. No step was too hard because I simply mirrored the others, sucking up the energy they’d tapped into. They were amazed a white woman could move like them. I myself was surprised at how easy, how vital, it turned out to be.

  It was my double life. During the week, I played the role of demure teacher and diligent Peace Corps volunteer. I’d put time into my library project, visit the market with Lisette or Lance and retire at a reasonable hour. Then, late Saturday night, I’d hear the drums. I’d head down the path and feel something in me leap with excitement, as if I were running off to meet a lover. Once among the others, I’d fall into the groove that gave me the energy to continue on and on.

  One night, the ceremony had special visitors. Four women strode to the center, attired in traditional costumes, chalky white slashes painted on their faces, and began to dance. Their practiced moves, more forceful and energetic than those of the local women, told me they were professionals at this kind of dancing. The last woman, however, was in a category of her own, a prima ballerina of tribal dancing. She was huge, solid like a mountain, her hair braided in tiny tresses that poked out in all directions. She had protruding cheekbones and a wide mouth that drew focus to her face. Her eyes were dramatically outlined with black liner. But it was the fierce light shining from them and the authority in her movements that made me take a respectful step back.

  Her name, Célèste informed me, was Marie-Belle, and she’d trained for eight years as a priestess in Ghana. The family of the deceased had paid for her and her acolytes to join them here this evening. The four of them had spent the past twelve hours fasting and meditating, to assist them in their communication. I didn’t ask Célèste with whom they’d be communicating. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

  Just watching Marie-Belle dance made my skin prickle at the nape of my neck. She had a formidable presence I couldn’t quite decipher. She’d smile and nod periodically to herself, as if in agreement with an invisible guide, before launching into another sweeping movement. She was like a cyclone, commanding everyone’s attention, sucking up the energy around her only to fling it back out to the spectators.

  It brought back the memory of William’s description of the Gule Wamkulu and I knew, beyond doubt, that this woman had accessed the same energy from the same place. She was not dancing; she was being danced.

  Her acolytes, during their turn in the center, began to slow down, moving to a rhythm that seemed to be in their minds alone. One dancer stopped in her tracks and sank to a supine position, where her body undulated on the earth like it was water. Another lifted one arm and waved it back and forth over her head, gazing up at it, mesmerized. A third tilted her head back and began to spin in circles, a dozen rotations, which gave the ballet dancer in me
vertigo.

  What unnerved me about it all was not so much their movements as much as the body language that told me in no uncertain terms these women had gone Somewhere Else. Where, I wondered? Where, precisely, was Somewhere Else? And what did it feel like to dance away consciousness, to transcend realms?

  I decided, with a shiver of unease, that it wasn’t something I needed to know.

  On the day of Alison’s wedding, I couldn’t stop thinking about her—the classic beauty of her face and the way she could make a room light up with her smile. I envisioned the rustle of her satin wedding dress, the flushed glow on Mom’s face, the way Dad was sure to get misty-eyed today. If I’d been there, I would have too.

  My almost-twin, only eleven months older, this sister I’d been so close to as a little girl, whether we’d had interests in common or not. She was getting married and I wasn’t there. It was the biggest day of her life and I’d be absent, because I’d nursed a grudge that I valued over the big picture.

  I swallowed my sorrow, the overwhelming regret for how everything had turned out between us, and set to work cleaning the house and grading homework. I coached myself to not think about the wedding or the fact that William hadn’t shown up. I finally gave up, hopped on my bike and wheeled through the mud into town, where I hunted down Lance. Together we wandered over to the market. After we’d bought a few items and visited with vendors, we adjourned to a bar for Regab.

  Lance’s classes, predictably, had grown rife with discipline problems. I shared a few stories of last year, and soon we were engaged in a laughing, beery, “top this one” exchange.

  “There you are,” a familiar voice called out. I looked up and saw William walking toward us. Relief coursed through me. William had kept his promise after all. No matter what kind of games we were playing here, my friend had come through. I smiled at him as he joined us. He sat and signaled for a beer.