"I Have Aids!" by Sky Gilbert- April 09

Ryan Kelly and Gavin Crawford in "I have Aids" by Sky Gilbert

Photo: Ryan Kelly as "Nurse Katey"...the Cheery Sock Puppet

Here is a photos from a recent production at Buddies in Bad Times Theatre. I designed the costumes. The play was successful in causing controversy and public discussion.

Secular Mass in Papua New Guinea

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 

Safari up the Rajang

BY SHEREE TAMS

Not long after reading about an eco safari camp that calls itself “NOT THE HILTON” we headed deep into bush. Less than an hour’s flight from Kota Kinabalu we were in Sandikan and from there it was two hours by road to a small village jetty, then another hour by motorized longboat. Part way down the Kinabatang the palm plantations flanking both sides of the riverbank stopped abruptly and tropical rainforest began. When we finally hit dry land, it was a long slog through dense forest before we arrived.

Uncle Tan’s Safari Camp was situated in the Kinabatang Valley, in the province of Sabah in Borneo, near an old river bed among vivid orange ox-bow lakes. the camp’s raised huts were completely open with no doors or windows, only a mosquito net and  mattress. Communal toilets were “biological,” semi-private holes in the ground with a bucket of rain water nearby for flushing. The shower was the same.

Lunch was served to the serenades of Borneo gibbons making “hootie” noises, and jumbo-sized bees chased guests into a frenzy and lunches went flying. Leftovers were scraped into a central fire pit, which doubled as a feeding trough for a family of wild boars and monitor lizards, who apart from looking like a scene from Jurassic Park, didn’t seem to mind each others company.

Ami, our guide would sniff the air often then follow the smell to a sighting. The first morning he led us to an adult orangutan and her baby. We stood silently as it defecated in the canopy over our heads. Later Ami’s nose found a family of proboscis monkeys, gibbons, macaques and wild elephant tracks.

From the rainforests of Borneo to the slick shopping malls and Petrona Towers of Kuala Lumpur, the most amazing thing about Malaysia is that one day you are climbing Mount Kinabalu and the next you’re singing karoke on a boat bound for an Iban longhouse. Days later, on our way to one such longhouse, the onboard entertainment including Exit Wounds starring Steven Seagal with Chinese subtitles followed by the three hours of WWE Wrestling. Sailing out into the South China sea, and then deep into the tributaries of the Rajang, while a well-worn Karoke machine kept people occupied on deck two. The social director pulled out a tatty yellow binder of song choices in Malay, Chinese, Iban or English. Selections include everything from “Help” by the Beatles, to the ”The Green Green Grass of Home” by Tom Jones. Meanwhile outside on the river, rogue logs float by, and they seem to be moving to the beat of the music. 

PUBLISHED IN OUTPOST MAGAZINE GLOBAL TRAVEL GUIDE • 2003

Desert Storm

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

Sweet Shelter

THE DRAGONS ARE AIRBORNE TONIGHT AS WE CLOSE THE DOORS OF OUR OUT OF THE COLD SHELTER FOR ANOTHER YEAR

BY SHEREE TAMS

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.   

NOW | April 29-May 6, 2004 | VOL 23 NO 35