Hallelujah, High Fives

My glory days benching Division I college volleyball came to an end in December of 2008. It was a cold winter that year; not only because I knew that the years of playing my favorite sport every single day had ended, but because the era of free, unabashed high-fiving was over.

I was the ultimate high-fiver on the volleyball court and even in the weight room. My excellent high-fiving skills were the reason I was able to walk on to the team in the first place, and were what kept me in the game for four consecutive seasons.

There was a co-ed Monday night volleyball league I joined after graduation. Made up of primarily gay men, that allowed me plenty opportunity to release some of my now pent-up need to high five. Then there was the Super Bowl, where I received more high fives in one night on Bourbon Street than I could have ever collected in the duration of a five-game volleyball match. But it still was not enough.

My high fiving started to come out of its sports-restricted shell. When I found commonalities with others: “Oh, you like to play Scrabble too?” High-five. It became a sign of thanks: “Thanks for the beer!” Hi-five. It even started peeking out in class: “Our professor just pushed back the due-date for our assignment!” H.F. Tico, a grad. school colleague, even pointed out how quick I had become on the high-five draw, and made it a point to gimme a double every time I passed him.

I exhibited enthusiasm and perseverance with the high five, and it has come back to me high-five-fold here in Bamako: all these Malians love to high-five.

It’s only done for one purpose: to recognize how good that joke you just told really was. Thankfully jokes are told all the time here, so there’s a constant, energetic flow.

And it’s not just a wrist-hand movement like in the states; here, the whole body gets involved. You duck your head down a little, get that elbow way up til it’s even with the shoulder, then you swing your whole arm over to grab your buddy’s hand. If you’re really feeling it, as most do, that other hand may come over too and give you a full clamped grasp. I’ve had a few grasps last for at least 3 full Mississippis.

These are deep-rooted, ancestral, West African, feel it in your bones high-fives. So if you weren’t convinced by my previous blogs that I’m loving it here in Mali, now you absolutely know beyond a doubt.