What Possessed Me

Eye Break: Synergy (Paper Loves Cloth)

"Synergy" is a collaboration between the coffee filter multi-media compositions of artist Ron Meisner and the eclectic textile art from the Cora Ginsburg collection.  

Mesmerizing.

June 9 - 17th at Cora Ginsberg LLC, 19 East 74th Street 

 

 

The Mali Megillah: Hail to the Chief

On New Year's Day we get an early start, leaving Mopti for the Dogon country at dawn. For Rasta, it means three hours of sleep after a hard night of partying. For me, it means no chance to buy a change of clothes, malaria pills, a toothbrush, toilet paper, sunscreen, contact lens solution, bug repellent...

"There is no time." Banya, our driver, is a man on a mission. For an African, he's awfully Swiss. He wants to get this party started, so we have exactly enough time to rouse the Lebanese money changer from his slumber and buy two kilos of kola nuts as offerings to the village elders.

 

Kola nuts are an ingredient in the flavoring of Coke and Pepsi - they contain caffeine and are chewed to suppress the appetite, treat asthma and whooping cough, and elevate mood and energy levels. 

For this three day trek, all I have is what I brought with me on the plane to Mali, which is:

1. A camera and two lenses
2. A laptop (battery drained) 
3. An iPod (battery drained) 
4. A Blackberry (battery drained)
5. A notebook and pen
6. Travels with a Tangerine

Useless. And heavy. But there is nothing to do about it now - we are full steam ahead, our Landcruiser navigating the narrow, pitted roads leading to the sandstone cliffs of the Bandiagara Escarpment.

Granaries stored millet and precious items. They are perched on stones to deter vermin.

We reach Teli, where the cave-dwelling Tellem lived high up on the cliffs before they were pushed out by the Dogons in the 14th century. Some believe that the Tellem were pygmies and that they still roam the plains. 

 

The Tellem buried their dead in caves carved into the cliff to protect them from flash floods on the plains.

The climb is 1,650 feet up the side of a steep cliff, but who's counting? Rasta scrambles like a billy goat while I lumber along behind him, sometimes on all fours, rocks slipping under my feet. 

We peek into old mud plastered granaries where millet and precious goods were stored, and I hang out on the menstrual hut recovering from my exertions. It's bigger than my apartment in Brooklyn and the view across the plains is beautiful. 

These days, all the action is at the bottom of the cliff, where the people of Teli now live. 

 
Mud plaster mosque supported by wood beams.

The children have become accustomed to the presence of foreigners; Teli is often the first stop for tourists taking day trips into the Dogon. They have come to expect pens, key chains, candy. I attract a swarm of children who call out "Ça va biki? Ça va bonbons?" I have nothing for them, but I learn their names and they learn mine. I use my nickname, Tata (much easier to pronounce than my real name), which is also the name of a tragic heroine in a famous Malian song. To my delight, everyone I meet knows the song and serenades me. 

The dust kicked up from the plains gives the light a strange density and the children a chalky, almost ghostly look. I am covered in a thin film of pale pink and must look very strange as I approach the house of the chief with a handful of kola nuts.

We find the chief lying on a cot in his spartan hut, his eyes watering from what must be an epic hangover. The floor is littered with empty plastic packets of gin, each large enough to hold a shot. Rasta leads the way, speaking quietly by the chief's bed and pressing kola nuts into his hands.

I hang back by the entryway. I've never met a chief before, but this one looks somewhat the worse for wear. "Let's not bother him," I whisper to Rasta, but the chief swings his legs over the cot, steadies himself, and starts to dress.

I am embarrassed that we've disturbed him, but the chief is gracious, shaking my hand and pointing to my camera. He wants me to take his picture now that he is dressed in his hunting garb - a Dogon hat, a goat skin bag, and a cotton tunic covered in animal bones. The first picture doesn't satisfy him, so we do a full-on photoshoot with different poses and props, attracting a crowd of a dozen children, all of whom belong to the chief.

I am charmed by the little girls who carry their brothers and sisters around on their backs - the babies seem so sleepy and content, their tiny feet poking out of brightly colored slings.

We walk on. Rasta has asked a local boy of seventeen, Adi, to help carry our food and water as we make our way to the southeast edge of the Bandiagara escarpment. Despite the intense sun and heat, Adi and Rasta refuse to drink from my water bottle.

"We are camels!" they reassure me.

"But aren't you thirsty and tired?" 

"Boys do not ever say they are tired. It is shameful."

Well, shit. I'm tired. And sunburned. And carrying an enormous watermelon on my head. I do my best to keep up with Rasta and Adi whose pace is only a shade slower than a sprint. 

"Are you tired, older sister?"

"Oh, no! I'm fine!" I chirp. "Only...what is the watermelon for?" 

"It is for carrying."

As we scramble along the escarpment, crossing deep crevasses bridged by single logs, I carry the watermelon.We pass goat herds and baobab trees laden with strange podlike fruit, and I carry the watermelon. We look out onto the sweeping vista of the plains, breathe in the scent of wild jasmine, and I carry the watermelon.

I fucking hate the watermelon.

We reach Endé, a beautiful village known for bogolan (mud cloth) made from natural dyes and fermented mud. Bogolan and indigo decorate every wall and hang from intricately carved doorways.

We stop for lunch at the campement, sitting in the shade to rest. A giant bowl of couscous with vegetables and goat meat arrives at our table. 

"White people do not eat!" says Rasta, scooping up couscous lustily with the tips of his fingers.

Adi smiles and nods in agreement. "Malians eat meat. That's why we are strong."

"White people eat too much," I reply. "We are fat and wasteful."

"Is it true?" asks Adi, looking at Rasta. He is too polite to agree with me. 

"Older sister, wash your hands," Rasta says, passing me a plastic kettle of water to rinse off the couscous. With these boys I am clueless, helpless, untutored. They protect me from harm and from my own buffoonery with the tenderness and firmness of a parent who is saddled with a sweet but dimwitted child. They call the shots without explanation and I do what I'm told. It is a curious sensation for someone who likes to be in charge.

Wari board on bogolan cloth.

In the courtyard of the campement, the local chief snoozes in the sun while scrawny chickens hunt and peck around him. Two children sit at his feet playing wari and Rasta calls them over. They obediently leave the board behind while Adi and Rasta sow seeds into the pockets, their hands moving so quickly that I struggle to make out the rules. 

"Let's see if you are clever," Rasta says.

Adi beats me three times.

We stretch out in the shade, our bellies full. Adi and Rasta chat quietly in a Dogon dialect while I sink into the ground with delicious fatigue. It dawns on me how quiet it is here. There is no electricity, no running water, no machine-made noise. Just kitchen sounds - girls pounding millet, goats bleating, women scrubbing pots with sand. 

And then - the faraway sound of drums.

Adi and Rasta spring to their feet and exchange a few words.

"Tata, it's time to go." They are already making their way out of the courtyard. The sight of the watermelon disappearing into the house fills my heart with joy.

"Coming!" I call out. I sling my small bag of useless things across my back and run into the sound of unfamiliar music.

 

 

Images: All photographs are my own. Click to enlarge.

It's got my name written all over it

 

I wrote about my encounter with Persephone Books when this blog was still on the breast and pooping up its back, but I just saw this beautiful diary on India Knight's blog and wanted to share it with you.  am a great admirer of Persephone Books, which publishes neglected works by 20th century women writers (for this alone I love them) and (as if this weren't already enough) uses vintage fabric as inspiration for their endpapers. The blue fabric featured here is on sale at the store (GAH!) and the yellow was a fabric designed by Duncan Grant for Virginia Woolf's curtains. In this age of digital media, I am grateful to those who produce books that are beautiful, feminine, timeless, and inspiring to the senses. And how wonderful is their guide to Perfect Presents? Something lovely for the cook, the newlywed, the poet, the mother, the traveler, or the person who needs cheering up.

When my parents named me Persephone, they caught all sorts of hell from people who thought the name was absurd and pretentious. I've had to justify it, explain it, and repeat it my entire life. Having read what Persephone Books has to say about its name, I feel I now have the right words:

Why Persephone

We chose the name Persephone because it has a timeless quality; sounds beautiful; is very obviously feminine; and symbolises new beginnings (and fertility) as well as female creativity.

We did not at first realise that Persephone also symbolises many other aspects of women's lives, for example, less cheerfully, she represents married hell (being raped and imprisoned by her uncle Hades).

But mainly she is an image of women's creativity, and that is why our logo, based on a painting on a Greek amphora, shows a woman who is not only reading (the scroll) but also symbolises domesticity (the goose). She is not the goddess herself, but we preferred her to all other extant images of Persephone as well as to her own symbols - a daffodil, a lily, a pomegranate and a bat.

The agenda is available on October 21st at Persephone Books in London. If you're not in London, try emailing them at [email protected] to see if they can send one by mail...