AS I THINK OF IT NOW OUR CONVERSATION WILL BE ABOUT BIG MILLY'S AND OUR CHIPPED TEETH

I can't believe we are leaving so soon. I'm just growing accustomed to the people and the land here. But I suppose this what created the special quality, the leaving is as important as the arriving. I'm sitting listening to Arthur sing and story tell in time with Tyehimba's harmonica, ankle bells clanging along. This morning Chelsea and I spent the last of our money on fabric and trekked to the small town just a fifteen minute walk down the dirt road to get our dresses made. Upon returning, I posted in Tyehimba's hammock and watched Malaika film Stewart dance. Her plan is to project his bouncy dancing self behind her as she performs in real time, her own virtual back up dancer. It was one of the most joyous scenes I have ever encountered! I love these folks. Have I mentioned that already?

But last night was the best, by far. I almost didn't join the group but Malaika said, "Girl, we'll be in Brooklyn in two days. Sleep then!" I decided she was painfully right. What was I thinking? I guess all the shifting around had worn me out. They moved us ladies to the main grounds after all, Chelsea and I sharing a beautifully designed attic space with a lovely South African writer named Shalini. "Ok, I'm in!"

The night was a whirlwind. A group of us landed on the beach aside Big Milly's, a backpacker's hostel, where the sand is the creamiest, softest I've ever felt against my skin. The clouds had filled the sky like cotton, creating a planetarium dome effect, the almost-full moon holding it all together center-stage like a pin. The blanket of clouds broke only to create a perfect ring of light around the moon. Sitting on the sand, watching the waves roll in, crashing in on themselves over and over again, the whole scene felt nothing other than surreal. Tyehimba says, "I know its cheesy, but it feels like a movie." Hyper-real, I nodded. Of course we dressed up in our rastafari outfits for the occasion, if you know what I'm sayin'.

Our new dwelling at the Institute

The view from our deck

After sometime we joined the bar, where other folks were already gathered. Who knows who kept buying who drinks, but the overall spirit was happily drunken. I swung on the hammoc for what seemed hours, cracking bad jokes with Grant and J.P. until I had to pee, feeling incredibly bad ass for releasing my drink onto the side of the road when I gave up searching for the bathroom. The rest of the night was spent dancing and dancing and laughing and laughing with a rotating combination of people, but mostly, Malaika and Niq, to Bob Marley's Legend on repeat at the bar. No one seemed to mind when "Exodus" came on for the fifth time in a row. In fact, each time we raised our replenished glass to toast in honor of the great man, keeling over with laughter when someone in our group changed the lyrics to "movement of white people," (a significantly different lyric than "movement of JAH people.") Malaika and I decided it was a commentary on gentrification, briefly, until we gave up any attempt at intellectualism and changed the meaning to the hilarious moves of J.P. and my lanky imitation. Another lyric we Weird Al-ed out was "Rock My Boat." Poor J.P., who was the administrative guru in making the forum happen, was barraged with problems of conference go-ers his entire trip. We all rubbed his back and gave him sympathetic "you're doing a great job" looks routinely every time we saw him pacing on the cell phone. In this spirit, we sang to him, "Can't you see? You must believe me. Oh J.P., J.P., we're callin', callin'!"

Niq reveals he will be in New York for a matter of months, fulfilling a residency. We cheer! We'll all go out! We'll get drunk! I offer my couch for the late nights after dancing. Niq slurs that he will sleep with his jeans zipped. When I mention my cat, he pauses. Apparently, it is said that in South Africa old white divorced women keep cats to lick milk from their nether regions until they reach orgasm. (Also, dear readers, Niq is looking for a rich divorcee, himself, so if you have any leads, send them on!) Of course, this is incorporated into jokes all night, complete with gagging motions. I get piggy rided around the bar by Niq and then we slow dance like two drunk hippies at a bad jam band music festival. We all flirted with each other, men and women alike. Flirted with the moment of being in love with each person for their distinct flavor. What a spicy soup we are!

Saucy!

The next day I hear that Tyehimba almost drowns in the very waters we gazed upon the night before. He ventured out too far and the tide swept the ground under his feet away. June and Matt pulled him ashore, but almost lost their grips and went under with him. While catching his breath on the beach, a wave, like a hand, reached far beyond where the water touched the sand and swept across his legs, snatching his glasses, as if it needed to claim apart of him to its power. That's the thing. There are so many forces at work. I silently thank the moon for bringing us through this. For Jodie's mugger on the beach only taking her iPOD, the knife in hand merely a threat, for telling her to run away. For Tyehimba to be alive and breathing with us. For all of this.