PLOV 4 - Snow Leopard High Kick
PLOV
Hi, reader! You have once again received PLOV, and I once again find myself past the first hurdle of the early newsletters, and into the many hurdles of realizing I've committed myself to writing every single morning regardless of the impact on my sleep or exercise schedule. I am Bernard Soubry, and let us face monotony and discipline with good cheer and a bowl of rice porridge.
Yesterday: the opening of the Convention on Migratory Species COP. The first day. Worst day. Boring. No negotiating happens. Diplomats in high places must be given time to make speeches about how important all this work is. Chairs and vice-chairs must be elected by acclamation. Representatives to working groups on avian, terrestrial, and marine species must be put forward by the various regions of the world. And then there's a reception, and you go get high on little pumpkin samsa.
And there's this: After the Prime Minister of Uzbekistan has spoken, the media guys sharply dim the lights. Everything but the stage goes black, and a cohort of Uzbek ballet dancers dressed like flamingoes saunters up to the front. There's a swell of Russian-sounding ballet music, and then--a ten-minute display, too far away to see from our seats in the far back but caught on the six(?!) giant screens of the plenary hall.
The flamingoes preen around like proud kids. A herd of ibex, dancers using their hands as horns, chassés across the line of dignitary couches. A lone snow leopard, face dark with makeup, soloes a wheel-kick to the rough sound of drums. Then the strings pluck up, and they all come together, arms outstretched towards the audience: help. Help us.
You harden your heart to these things over time. It's first-day stuff: what happens when they put the plush white leather chairs in the front row with the fancy bottled water. It's a smallpiper in Glasgow, a haka in New Zealand, dancers in Panama City. There for the dignitaries. It's not on the agenda. It's not going to be in the analysis, or in your report to your ministries, or on the press releases about the reports. It's not going to change anyone's mind, or block a bad policy; it's just there, a way of happening, a mouth.
Except. Except. Except I shut my computer down when I hear the strings start to tighten their rhythm, and I laugh when I see the ibex pop up their hand-horns and swing them around like they're grazing some Tian Shan grass. I forget to take pictures.
When the snow leopard high-kicks, I think about what it must be like to be an Uzbek ballet troupe who's been told they're going to address the Prime Minister and the UN Under-Secretary-General. The hours of choreography, the getting it wrong, bumping into one another and falling onto wooden floors; picking up your costume for the first time. And then--your ten minutes, no do-overs.
I feel for those guys. I'm grateful for them, bringing art into a barren place. Just because there isn't room for it doesn't mean it shouldn't be there. So I gasp when they flick their arm-horns, and I laugh at the flamingos, and when they're done I stand up and clap as hard as anyone. Realpolitik can go bite it for a couple minutes. Who cares. I'm a sucker for a good show.
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