Africa ...

Arrived at Djenne last Sunday night along that northbound road  I must have travelled a thousand times: a dusty and hot eight hours drive up the main artery of Mali. The  people had already started to arrive from the surrounding villages and were  preparing for the Monday Market- it seems that it is  Calebash season at the moment! I moved in to the 'presidential suite' at the Hotel Campement, which is not quite as grand as it sounds... and later met up with the cataract team, i.e. Dr. Faira Keita and his assistants, who were in Djenne operating once more on the village population, sponsored by my cousin Pelle and his wife Nanni. 

Faira's team  also stayed at the Campement, which is about the only place now where one can stay in Djenne.

I was curious about the man that sat down in the hotel court yard in the evening, waiting for the Real Madrid - Barcelona match. He was wearing sun glasses. I was told that he had had his bandages removed that same morning, and that he had been totally blind with cataracts on both eyes. This was the first time he could  see anything for three years. He was a Barcelona fan, and as you may know, they won 4-0, making his joy complete.

I was on a mission to the Djenne Manuscript Library, and spent the following day connecting with the staff there, picking up the necessary items and discussing future possible plans with them. The work of digitizing carries on, sponsored by hmml.org,  in spite of a deteriorating security situation in Central Mali. Even Djenne, which up until now has remained something of a peaceful oasis in the troubled central area of Mali,  no longer enjoys the sense of immunity from the troubles I always detected earlier. Even Imam Yelpha is worried. The violence is creeping closer, and more and more dispossessed youths are joining the groups of 'jihadists' which terrorize the outlying villages and carry out indiscriminate killings, such as the senseless mortal shooting  last week of two Bozo brothers  (fishermens' tribe) who went upstream to fish... 

According to Boubakar, my erstwhile gardener, and many others among the Djenne population, the faction amongst the Fulani tribe that make up the main part of the 'jihadist' menace is hankering for  the return to  the  glory days of the nineteenth century, when Sekou Amadou and later Cheick Oumar Tall ruled central Mali with  their Fulani Empires- and when Djenne itself was their first capital.  Although it might explain why the cultivating tribes are killed while they try and cultivate their fields, to give more pasture for the Fulani cattle, it hardly explains the killing of two peaceful fishermen...

Back in Bamako again now, and the charmed  life of the expat of course, as I am staying with my friend Karen and engaging in peaceful pursuits in beautiful settings for a couple of days before flying back 'home' to Italy; such as here, below, playing chess at the poolside of Hotel Amitie- for sure the best pool in West Africa!

 

A Helter Skelter two weeks

 A momentous week or two. With a clue to the main event above…

After those enchanted days in Venice I flew off to London, and reconnected with my former life and all those people who are so close to me still, and hopefully  always will be. A few days at Andrew’s in Notting Hill, just around the corner from my Ladbroke Grove flat; then some days in Islington with Kathy and Dan. 

Good to refresh my memory of just how great are all those London delights, both the friends and the culture events… David took me along to the Guildhall School of Music and Drama where the students gave a great double bill performance of two contemporary operatic works- one by Judith Weir. This was so good that nothing- musically, lighting or design wise- would look out of place even if it was transplanted straight to Covent Garden.

More London culture extravaganza with Kathy as is our habit- checking out all the commercial art galleries of the West End:                                                                                                   

But of course I was not in London just to sample cultural delights. I needed to try and resolve some thorny and knarled matters to do with bureaucratic stuff- how to change over residency, health care etc to Italy. Not sure it is all sorted yet… 

 On the Sunday Kathy and I went to a moving, cram-packed Mass at the Ukrainian Cathedral: 

And then an acceleration in the speed of how things happen… I arrived Siena Sunday night, ladened down by suitcases stuffed with more of my belongings which had been stored in London, to go to bed exhausted, having little hope that the major matter at hand would be resolved:  i.e the final exchange of contract for the flat which had been programmed for the Monday since I had had an email from the notary on the Friday, sending me the atto definitivo, but telling me that some documents were still missing from the town authorities. So, I had resigned myself to the fact that I would be leaving Siena and going off to Mali on the Tuesday without having signed the deed and STILL not being the owner of that illusive object of desire, that flat with the view… so I was asleep still at 9.15 when I woke up by a phone call from the notary’s office, asking me where I was, and if I was intending to arrive? The other players were all assembled around the Notary’s table to play the final scene of this long running drama.

I galloped over and met my estate agent at the bank and the required banker’s drafts were signed then we finally arrived at the Notary’s office where I was met by an entire table full of people who had been waiting for my arrival for close to an hour. Nevermind.  This  was no time for recriminations one way or the other. Much relief and hand shaking and finally I was handed a little red silk covered box containing the keys to MY flat: 11 Casato di Sopra! And here are the happy sellers and buyer outside the Notary’s office after the signing.                        

                                                                                                           

I went up there straight away and managed to cause a minor upheaval immediately: I decided to try the lift out with my new key that is required to operate the lift. Nothing happened. But  there was a red button too. Ah!  I thought, idiotically.   ‘that must be the one to press to make it work’.  An infernal alarm went off and there was seemingly no way to close it- I knocked on every door and this is how I had my first encounter with my new neighbours… one of whom was kind enough to go and show me how to close the alarm off.

And the following morning I left at four o clock on a Rome-bound bus, since I had to do a PCR test for today’s flight to Mali. In something of a daze I made the decision to go on the rush hour tube to the testing laboratory. This turned out to be a major mistake, as I had the dubious honor of being chosen by the notorious Roman pick pockets, who robbed me of my purse and my diary from my bag in the general crush- only discovered once I left the tube station. I had not a cent, and of course needed to cancel all my credit cards , subito! Somewhat hysterically I called my old friend Sanjay, who advised me to go immediately to the nearest police station to report the loss, which I did. I also managed- or I believe I did- to cancel the cards, but this was something requiring  superhuman effort. One does not speak to a human being of course, when calling to cancel a bank card. One speaks to a machine which asks one to put in the bank details and card number – which one does not have- in order to be able to get anywhere! That was bad enough in English with my HSBC card, but even worse when I tried to cancel my Italian Monte dei Paschi di Siena card, and had to speak to an Italian machine in Italian!

In the end I sent Paolo, my lovely architect, down to speak to the bank in person to cancel the the card for me.

And mean while darling Sanjay sent me 500 Euros on Western Union, which I was able to pick up after crossing Rome illegally on buses and trams without money or tickets,  but armed with the police report.  Now in possession of this  precious  money I was able to  do the PCR test for the Mali journey, after which I sank happily into a taxi- no more Roman tubes for me!- and asked the driver to take me somewhere nice for lunch. He decided to take me to the Ghetto, which he proudly presented to me as the largest Jewish Ghetto in Europe, by the largest synagogue in Europe. This turned out to be a lively place full of little restaurants, where I sampled some kosher Roman fare that started with fried artichokes and went from good to even better… and as I was having coffee I received notification by email that my PCR test was negative.  

                                         

And now I am sitting writing this on the plane to Bamako, having once more got up at the even more brazing hour of three am to fly to Paris, and on to Bamako on this my birthday- tonight I will be having dinner with Karen and Ute by the River Niger!

And here we are, last night, by the Niger...!

Venetian interlude

How many times has this view been sent to friends around the world in the form of post cards, drawings, or snap-shots? And probably painted by Canaletto?  

I had been to Venice many years ago, but this time I seemed to see it properly for the first time.  Three days of brilliant sunny skies saw  me ambling through this unreal city in the company of my Minnesota friends Patty and Les once more: our wanderings led us up and down the bridges across the canals with no particular goals apart from certain restaurants or watering holes... for instance the lovely bar below, where Patty, through a minimal knowledge of Italian (she claims)  managed to order us SIX Campari Spritzas rather than three...

here you eat little mini sandwiches with delicious (and sometimes rather peculiar taste combinations, such as this tuna and cocoa mixture, below, top left, which, against all odds, proved to be a winning fomulae!)

We had a lovely lunch in the sun - it was in that Trattoria, you know, the one  down by the bridge over the Canal- where I tried the strange but wonderful Venetian speciality 'Seppia Nero con Polenta'. Ah!....

And all of this of course, under the dark shadow of the Ukrainian war, which hangs over all our undertakings just now- the realization of how very lucky we are made these Venetian pleasures perhaps more poignant than they would have been, as a constant awareness took hold of us; underlining the very fragility of all this beauty and happiness, and all of us...

 

Steam and Dream Forests

In spite of a world beset with seemingly insurmountable problems, and faced with possible imminent destruction, life here in Tuscany carries on in an embarrassingly  pleasant fashion...Satomi and I spent a delicious day at the Antica Querciolaia, the lovely hot spring resort a few kilometres from Siena last Saturday, luxuriating in 40C pools while steam rose into the zero centigrade air.  The Sunday was spent rather more energetically: I went for another very long walk with my new found trekking group.

About thirty of us met on a chilly morning to start a 17 Kilometre trail through the Tuscan wood lands to the north of Siena  to reach our goal: the Selva di Sogno; the vision of Manfred Flucke, a German artist who has worked for the last forty years transforming the forest into  a series of  rather wonderful  installations using just stones and natural debris to create imaginary cityscapes and dream worlds...

And as far as Siena and my new flat is concerned, it has all been delayed by two weeks: I will now finally - hopefully- get the keys to my new abode on the 15th of March...

 Nevertheless, I was able to show the flat to Patty, my friend from Minnesota, who has come to visit.  It now lies stripped bare of furniture and ready to be 'ristrutturato'...                      

                                                                                       

                                                      And tomorrow, we are off to Venice!