I have never been fond of cold showers, even in hot countries...but after two days on the dusty desert piste of Mali’s Dogon country I was ready for a cold wash. The red sandy mud permiated my clothes and nostrils, my tummy was acting up, and the malaria medication was giving me vivid nightmares. It had been a bone rattling experience, riding in a cat cat (4X4 truck) across the desert Sahel. Great plains with soaring ridges topped by ancient caves, a surreal landscape more spectacular than any Grand Canyon. Mali is the largest country in West Africa, and the great Sahara desert covers more than half of its landmass. I was headed for Timbuktu, a place my mother had always threatened to send me if I was naughty or didn’t eat my peas.
I had spent several days visiting Dogon villages, climbing up steep rock inclines to the ancient Tellem caves, now inhabited by the Dogon. I felt like a novice anthropologist. Indigenous people had lived in these caves for centuries and continue to do so, even though the village wells are a kilometre away on the plateau below. There is no electricity. Just working families living their lives, women pounding millet cereal, children carrying water, men working in the fields and seniors sitting in small groups greeting visitors.
All live harmoniously in villages often shared with other tribes they call their “laughing cousins.” The concept of “laughing cousins” really tells the story of Mali and how the tribes complement each other. The Bozo people are the fishermen; the Fulani look after the cattle; the Dogon are the farmers; the Bella people manufacture straw mats; and the Songhay have a proud, fearless heritage of empire building. Then there are the nomadic Tuareg, who constantly move in caravans across the Sahara, loading up their camels with salt slabs from the Taoudenni Salt Mine and taking them on a long trek across the Sahara, following the stars to Timbuktu where they are sold, loaded on to donkeys or boats headed down the Niger River.
On this day, after the cold shower and traditional breakfast of baguette and cream cheese (the Malians have been heavily influenced by French culture) I was headed for more villages. I drove past endless fields of millet, onions and cotton then back on to dry dirt-track road that seemed to go on forever. There were few vehicles on the road but plenty of people working the fields dressed in bright colours.
At noon I arrived at a small mud village with its very own mud mosque . Greeted by dozens of the village children I then went to visit the schoolhouse and saw 200 kids stuffed into a small, hot classroom, all of them behaving so well and listening attentively to the teacher. I thought about my children and how we would complain if there were more than 30 students in their classroom.
One little boy was limping with a bandage tied loosely around his foot. A village elder showed us his wound, a big hole in the bottom of his foot that looked like it was turning green. While visiting this richly cultural nation, it’s easy to forget that it is one of the poorest countries in the world, until you reach the remote villages. I dug out some antiseptic cream and fresh bandages for the boy from the first-aid kit in the back of the cat cat. I felt so useless. There was no medical clinic nearby. Most people couldn’t afford medicine. Many had resorted to buying cheap, expired pharmaceuticals from stalls in the local markets. Self-medicating was common, as was death from poisoning.
Published in "Special Glasses Magazine" 2007
BY SHEREE TAMS
Great gobs of red spit were hitting the ground like a hail storm. the unemployed, gamblers, rascals, spirited bus drivers, wayward teenagers, airport customs officials - crowded into an open field, united by their orange teeth, they came to socialize, gamble, gossip, play darts...but most of all to spit.
Here at Mount Hagan’s city limits, our modern fuel efficient Japanese minibus with wooden benches, four-wheel drive and the local version of fuzzy dice was greeted by a hand painted 20-foot billboard, proclaiming in vibrant, garish colours that there would be “NO CHEWING BEETLENUT BEYOND THIS POINT. “ Red-soaked earth preceded the sign, where the large crowd had gathered, and brown dirt continued beyond. The line was drawn, marking a bloody battleground strew with broken husks. It was a men’s club, a vice for the common man. The only women present were serving, cleaning and gathering. Their posture was unobtrusive and humbled.
As we continued towards town away from the airport and the field of spit, we discovered a street lined with churches - huts with crosses, not just one or two, but too many to count. This was salvation’s ground zero. There were more missions than shops, but the streets were deserted. Given that secular mass was being held at the the suburban spitting ground at the edge of town.
EXCERPTED FROM THE APRIL/MAY ISSUE OF OUTPOST MAGAZINE 2001
BY SHEREE TAMS
I call it “Desert Storm”. It looks like apple crumble without the apple. Brown sugar mixed with butter and oatmeal, perhaps a pinch of salt. Cooked for one hour on gas mark 4 in a square baking pan until golden brown. But if you look a little closer you’ll see that it is a typical Saturday night in the kitchen of my tiny flat in North London. I have my head in the oven trying to cook building sand. 25 kilos of it. Its everywhere…under my feet, in my hair, on the counter. Guaranteed to be in tomorrow’s lunch.
Working in London’s fringe as a designer finds you in some very odd places. Like trolling the sex shops of Soho looking for leg shackles for the African Slaves that will tour the country during Black History month. I wouldn’t like to guess how many hours of my life I have spent in a frenzy jumping on and off the bus …hitting every charity shop from Clapham Junction to Dalston, trying to find the right shade of purple gloves or size 12 open toe shoes that will match a peach dress. My body aches from carrying heavy bags. It’s never dull and very challenging especially with the limited budgets. You often end up sewing and building the set yourself. Whether it’s in your flat, on a roof, on the bus, in a laneway or in the park across the road from the theatre. I like to think that the city streets and public places are my studio, until it starts to rain.
We fringe designers tend to be isolated as artists. Friends tend to be theatre people who share the pain, laugh and commiserate. You try and support each other’s work while fighting the green-eyed monster. Our lives and relationships are often fragmented by a commitment to a show. Being out of town for months and then trying to slip back into your old life when you return is sometimes difficult. There is also a lack of recognition. Actors who think you are there to serve them, when really you are there to serve the play. Stage managers who shout at you and occasionally producers forget to pay you or don’t include you on the program or website. Critics may not mention your work at all. Directors often ignore you once rehearsals begin, you feel abandoned.
The director-designer relationship was once aptly described to me by one of my tutors as “A love affair. Intense and short lived, followed by a period of grief”. You always feel like you are on the outside. Perhaps our lack of recognition stems from our perceived value in society, our poor compensation, our insecurity as artists or the way we are taught at school. I remember the mantra “it is not about us…it is about the text”.
LONDON THEATRE BLOG 07
It’s a rainy tuesday night and the last of the season for our local homeless shelter. The dragons are airborne tonight for two of our guests who suffer with schizophrenia. They shout "Duck!" and weave to avoid these invisible monsters. We carry on handing out the mats and blankets, scrubbing pots in the kitchen, searching for shampoo or toothpaste and running out to the store to pick up milk.
This is our home most Tuesday nights from October until April, when the Out Of The Cold programs around Toronto shut down for another year.
I’m the "hallway monitor" at this church. My job entails hanging out and talking to the guests, who over the years have become my friends. I am just a small piece in a puzzle that includes 200 volunteers working over 6,000 hours to provide more than 3,360 dinners, 1,680 breakfasts and 960 bagged lunches. Three part-time social workers and a dozen outreach workers from Dixon Hall make up the balance.
Our program provides overnight shelter for 70 people. We’re supported by seven church congregations and the community and, in part, by an annual fundraising concert that takes on a life of its own. This is a busy place, never a dull moment, though tonight there’s an air of sadness.
A small group sits around the dining table sipping coffee. They’re Danny’s friends, and they’re grieving his loss. Danny died on the street a few days ago, and there is pain in the voice of one young man when he talks about having to identify his remains at the morgue.
Danny stories are told and retold. Central to the conversation is a photocopied picture of him smiling and looking very handsome. He’s camping in the woods, wearing a blue jacket.
I have my own Danny story from last week, when I ran into him on Bloor. He stopped me to give me a hug. He always called me "baby" even though I was 10 years older than him. We leave a plate of food and a candle on the stage to honour his presence.
Moriarty, the black house cat, makes her way through the maze of mats and sleeping bodies. Some of the guests call her Piggy because of her size. The cat saunters by Judy, our guest who suffers from multiple sclerosis.
Judy recently reappeared on the streets after being housed for a year. I was shocked and disappointed to see her. One of the guests has taken on the role of caregiver, helping her dress, eat, walk, use the bathroom and go out for a cigarette. Her mat is strategically placed near a doorway so she can manage a trip to the bathroom during the night with the aid of her shopping cart.
The vulnerability of living on the street and being chronically ill is hard to imagine, but Judy has many friends here at the shelter. They roll up a supply of cigarettes for her to take away, and bring her cups of coffee.
There’s a lump in my throat. I try to cover it up by gathering cups and taking them to the kitchen.
Jennifer stops in the hallway to chat about her family. She shows me the new shirt her grandma crocheted for her, and a photograph of her grandson. We’re the same age and have many things in common. She has the same kind of epilepsy as my daughter; we talk about the awful drugs she takes to counter the seizures. I’ve known her for four years. She’s a sweet, nurturing woman. It’s hard to believe she lives on the street.
As the evening progresses, we run out of mats, and a message is sent to the front lines. We’re told to turn away guests, give them a subway token and redirect them to Council Fire shelter.
Our front lines include a cheerful doorman named Bob, a 10-year veteran volunteer and retired firefighter. He passes cigarettes out to the crowd. He doesn’t smoke himself, but this service has made him very popular among the guests. Bob sees no end in sight for the program. "The numbers increase every year," he says. "Now our shelter is always full, and we often run out of food."
After the shift, a group of us volunteers head down to the pub for our own impromptu counselling session, a ritual debriefing where we share stories and frustrations over a pint.
Although Out Of The Cold is not the solution to Toronto’s housing crisis, it does provide warmth, shelter and meals as well as respectful and caring companionship. A community exists here.
