Cameroon letter #5 - how do some people not dance?

Dear Ruthanna,

For several weeks the different departments of Mercy Ship – deck, hospital, engineering, etc. – have had a soccer tournament going. The championship game – Engineering vs. the Hospital – was this weekend. My friends Rachel, Debra, and I attended. A Cameroonian member of our day crew (local staff who help us culturally and linguistically translate) was the announcer, providing a play-by-play over a microphone. And oh my goodness, his play-by-play would have been enough to attend for:

“Ok, ok, now Stephanie –“ (Stephanie was the only girl player whose name he remembered so he seemed to call the other girls that name too) “ – Stephanie she keeck de ball, she keeck eet very hahd. It would haff been a good shot foah de team, it might haff been a goal, but Stephanie she keeck de ball and de ball go aoutsaide. Now de Engineering team, dey haff de ball, dees Engineering playa he keeck de ball to dees – dees –“ as he tries to remember the name – “dees meesionary playa, but de meesionary playa mees de ball and de ball go aoutsaide. Now Stephanie she haff de ball, she going to breeng points to de hospital team, but she lose de ball and de ball go aoutside. De referee say no trouble for de hospital, no trouble for Engineering. Now Stephanie she haff de ball, thees ees maybe going to be glory for de hospital team, for dee weemen playas, Stephanie she ehhhhh she ehhhh, she run weet de ball – “ he begins speculating on what she’s going to do with it – “maybe she going pass de ball, maybe she not pass de ball, maybe she go for de goal – oooohhh ho! She pass de ball to de othah playa, but dey mees, and de ball go aoutside.”

Totally worth attending just for the play-by-play. Engineering, a department largely composed of young European and African men, won the tournament. That team was really into it too. At one point a fight nearly broke out in the middle of the field and the referee had to go separate the players. He put one of them on time-out – marched him to the side of the field and made him sit down. That player proceeded to lie helplessly on the ground watching the referee until the referee walked away, and then he sat up and started shouting and kicking his feet against the cement tiles of the shipyard. Funniest thing I’ve seen in a while. Once Engineering won, they took over the yard and turned on music over the speaker system and danced. My friend Debra and I danced too – she’s a lot better than me, but we both had fun. There weren’t a lot of white/European staff who joined in the dancing. I felt sorry for them, honestly, like I feel sorry for people who don’t try to dance. I journaled about it later. It’s just something that baffles me – when the music syncs with your heartbeat and vibrates through every bone in your body, how do you not dance?

How do some people not dance?

I know I’m no performer, no professional,

no student of the arts

but I have joints

and they can bend

and I have feet

and they can step

and I have arms

and they can swing

and though I look just like a cricket singed and trying to escape a flame

I dance and feel the drumbeat flowing

like a goulbi through my limbs.

You stiff people, tin-soldier folks,

like unbent paper - 

where is your life?

Don’t your hearts move, 

try to break through 

their rib-bone cages, beg every piece of you

to look on their wild captivity 

enlivened by the music

and in some kind of sympathy,

express as they cannot

how music gives transcendence

even to rib-cage-captive hearts?

I miss our crazy shuffle-fests in the kitchen with Sarah and Alexa and Dad.

Are you reading my letters to Sarah? Please read them aloud to her.

I love you much, Tab