Africa is Sexy

Sitting in my hut, the new straw roof is even worse than the last one; it’s not sealed, and I feel each irate wind. And my kitchen is a mess and it won’t be dry enough to fix tomorrow morning. And here I sat rehearsing my anger speech to the village, how I would tell them I couldn’t live another day in a busted hut. But the music in my ear, Devendra Banhardt plucking along, is just too damn beautiful and sexy and bright and now I’m grinning and excited for my upcoming trips around this place, and to come back and chat with Soliba and see other volunteers and paint more health murals. So I just can’t stay mad or sad in this electric storm and I’ve never been able to, I just feel the energy glittering and I’m on the world’s greatest adventure, I am the fearless pioneer of treacherous truck rides and jumping to the drum beats and filling empty bellies and sucking enveloping sculpting all of this.

Yea, Africa is sexy me and Eric agreed the other day, sitting on the floor of the Chief’s lodge in the gold mining village. What is sexy about Africa? We pondered this and sweat dried foreheads, snacking on peanuts on the scratchy plastic mat. And the more we talked we felt how sweltering these hot days are, sultry and invading, as if the air is pressing its heavy body against you, with intoxicated passivity you ache under its weight. There is no promise of a release except for these electric rain storms, and when it rains it begins with the violent winds where the dust makes you squeeze your eyes shut tight; then the rain swells and unleashes its tiniest drops first and then bigger, faster, your pores cry for relief. Soon the rain is too strong, you can escape under the shelter of leaky straw but maybe you are better off getting wet, sopping, streaming, but finally cool.

So we sat smelling the roasted goat meat and we saw this taunting "modesty" of the African Muslim culture, the innocence easily seen through as the endless children parade by; let’s not pretend they all sprung from the drowsy gardens. Everyone is together, sweltering skins touch as we squeeze in Bush taxis or sit and talk on the one mat or bench around. And if you are not touching, right next to everyone, well then you are alone in the bush and you are really nothing if you don’t reverberate with everyone in the overflowing drum circles and call out to one another in song. Yes, Africa is sweltering and naked and orgiastic with human energy, so concretely human.