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It was a MOST unusual occasion. OK - so there I was, onstage at the Fillmore, blowing my heart out to a sea of writhing bodies. Except, this was no ordinary R'nR Fillmore crowd on a Saturday night. For a start it was 4pm on a Sunday and the sea of writhingness was a colorfully coordinated wall to wall covering of yoginis. Not a square foot of Fillmore floor space from the entrance to the long bar was free of downward facing dogginess, asana dreaming or wholesome healthy bodies digging the wall of sound I was producing along with a couple of other guys, Rara and Craig Kohland of Shaman's Dream, whom I had only met an hour beforehand. So, there I was grooving along to Janet Stone's yogic exhortations when I became aware of a mystery blonde, onstage to my left and far off in the outer reaches of my peripheral vision. She seemed to be fixated on me at that moment
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In early 2010 Kim Epifano, of San Francisco’s Epiphany Productions Sonic Dance Theater, contacted me with a tenuous proposal to put a new work together with her company to represent America in a Dance Festival slated for early March in Tunisia. Of course I said ‘Yes’ without thinking. It was a no brainer – ANY invitation for me to go to Africa, almost regardless of conditions, would be very welcome. The irony of myself “representing the USA” in anything was certainly not lost on me and became even greater when the motley crew that Kim was assembling included only a slim majority of ‘actual’ Americans – Kim Epifano herself, a Texan - her office manager and right hand man – Randy Symak, whose connections inside the US Embassy in Tunis were to make the whole thing possible, and Antoine Hunter, an extraordinary Afro/NativeAmerican dancer with an advanced hearing disability. The rest of the company was made up of myself, and a wonderful French dancer, Christine Sautur-Bonansea, now resident for a number of years in SF. Nevertheless, a group very representative of the creative spirit and energy of the San Francisco Bay Area, that’s for sure.
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This is NO vacation, that’s for sure (think again, you people who think the touring life of an artist is simply one long sequence of lazy days punctuated by ego-massaging performances). On the first full day of our arrival in Carthage, which is to be our base for the 6 days of our stay here, after a short morning walk from the hotel – past the archeological site next door which we are informed is an area the Phoenecians used for the ritual sacrifice of children (certainly not the pleasantest of concepts – disturbing actually) - around the harbor area of the Port Punic (The Phoenecian Port) we leap into a rigorous schedule that will not let up until we leave the country. Almost every hour of the day, sometimes until late at night, is tightly mapped out for us. I am glad I took the precaution of taking a sleeping pill on the plane to get me on track with a 9 hour time difference; It kind of works.
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My direct experiences of the Tunisian people are mostly extremely positive. They have been very hospitable and my interactions on the streets, in shops and certainly in relation to the Mad’Art Carthage Dance Festival we are here to participate in all leave me with a good feeling. People are people the world over and the bottom line in both my business and my life is all about communication. Here our presence is sanctioned and represented by the US Embassy, so I know that gives us distinct VIP currency in the way the motley crew of the 5 of us must appear to the people of Tunis and Carthage, where we spend our entire time here. Our visit is for just 6 days and in that time almost every hour has been scheduled, which gives us a very limited access to the country and the world beyond our hotel, where we are slated to eat almost all of our meals, and the influence of our comfortable occupation of the large dark blue Chevy Suburban with Selim, our genial and ultra-patient US Embassy-appointed driver and guide. So, my viewpoint of this place is necessarily a limited one. I am 100% certain that, as Selim parks the Suburban at will in any available public space with the occasional knowing nod, wink or wave to any official who may be in the vicinity, that we are privileged far beyond the bounds of any ‘normal’ people here.
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The Asshole simply isn’t going to back down. I can see that, even as Christine, more animated even than she was onstage last night in front of an adoring crowd at the culmination of the Mad’Art Dance Festival in Carthage, buzzes around him serving up French menu of super-reasonable arguments that he should change his mind and allow us to go on to the gate. But this audience, dressed as he is in the pale blue, white and gold uniform of the Tunisian airport security cop, is going to make a point that he is not there for the taking. He probably grew up pulling the legs and wings off flies, delighting in watching the death throes of the frantic, helpless and dying insect as it buzzed its last moments in the dirt. Now, replete with the ever present and silly looking over-tall peaked cap of petty officialdom the world over, he is flexing his personal power bar and torturing us with the reality that I am going to have to go back through security, run the gauntlet of passport control in reverse, past the Prayer Room and the tourist shops, through the entire airport and make my way back to the check-in area for Air France where I will doubtless be charged another arm and a leg (my checked bag was 8 kilos overweight - $175 merci bien) and then make it to the gate in time for our flight, which leaves in 20 minutes. And who’s to say I won’t get more shit in at least ONE stage of the return gauntlet… just to make sure we’re potentially TOTALLY fucked he makes me leave my hand luggage roller with Christine and the rest of Epiphany Dance while I attempt his designated obstacle course. Jeux sans frontieres indeed.
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SK Plays for The Rest of the World vs India/Pakistan
The sun was heading towards the horizon and by the looks of it so were we. By then we were about 150 for 7, not even halfway to our target. The much vaunted batting line up of The Rest of the World team had largely capitulated to a mix of early season cricket lag, poor shot selection and wily bowling that had mostly silenced their bellowing team mates sitting on the boundary line minding the scorebook and drinking a few not so quiet beers.
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When former Marin Social player, Jonathan Botha, last year made muttering noises about the idea of attending the Philadelphia Cricket festival in the spring I paid little attention to the details of what he was talking about but expressed a fledgling interest. Early this year he followed up and, having to my surprise received encouragement from the home front, I decided to bite the bullet and make the pilgrimage to what turns out to be the truly spiritual home of Cricket in America – Philadelphia. Here, in the home of the Phillies and the Liberty Bell, cricket has been played since at least 1854 and for the past 17 years there has been a 4 day festival celebrated by more than a dozen teams from many parts of N.America [including 4 from Philadelphia] and a couple from England. To say the entire event was a complete blast, in spite of being washed out on the final day and intermittently interrupted by the wet stuff that falls from the sky would (for me) be one of the understatements of the year – it was a cracking experience that began with me saying to myself that it would be a “Once in a Lifetime Trip” and ending with me being determined to return with a team from Marin next year, if at all possible, and if not – sod it, I’ll go back on my own! Here’s a taste of what you’re missing:
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