London Life

 

There is a great difference between Mali and London I have noticed. In Mali all is extreme. Everything seems impossible and until the very last minute one is in the dark about everything: 'Is it going to work?' 'Seems highly unlikely.' 'When will it start?' 'Have no idea'. 'Will I ever get out of here?' 'Maybe not.'  I think I am quite addicted to an unstable life style with some danger attached.

 Have planted geraniums in my window box. 

 But really, I am not complaining..

As usual Jeremiah is providing plenty of good quality outings like last night at the French Institute when Charlotte Rampling and Lambert Wilson read poetry linked to Paris in the early 20^th century and anchored on TS Eliot- who was influenced by Baudelaire amongst others it turns out. Lovely to hear the wondrous  Harmonie du Soir  so beautifully read.

There is a gorgeous Sonia Delauney in the stairway at the Institute, and there were lots of yummy little canapés and good champagne.  We ended up in the venerable Daquise Polish restaurant in South Kensington afterwards. 

There are things going on in Timbuktu: the blessed boxes with the digitizing material which were sent from the Benedictines in Minnesota in February have finally wound their way to Timbuktu, and were received at the Imam Essayouti Library on Thursday, Alhamdulillah!

 More of this very soon..

Sadness and Joy

Back in London now, where spring has finally arrived. But although I am here in body, much of my mind lingers on in Mali where events- both good and bad- tumble over each other with increasing speed and keep my attention focussed. Here, in no particular order, is a run down of some of these events:

The airport at Timbuktu, where I spent such a large amount of time on my recent Mali visit, was part of a complex Jihadist attack last Saturday 14^th April.  It looks as if it lies in smithereens, but at least Eva assured me that the landing strip is unharmed. The attack was simultaneously an attack on the UN camp adjacent to the airport, and the terrorists were disguised as UN and FAMA (Malian army)  personnel. A sophisticated attempt at great destruction , which nevertheless has to be regarded as a failure says Eva, since ten Jihadists were neutralized (other  sources say 15) with the loss of one UN soldier.

This is what the Airport looked like on August 14^th last year, when Walid, Father Columba and I flew in to land ourselves in the previous great Jihadist attack  which occurred a couple of hours later, that time at the UN headquarters in the centre of Timbuktu, next to our hotel...

So will work now become even more difficult to organize in Timbuktu itself? Will the boxes be able to be delivered on that promised MINUSMA flight for our project? I have tried, but failed so far to have any information.

Meanwhile, Saadou Traore, our manuscript expert at the Djenne Manuscript Library, has braved the dangerous road north home to Timbuktu to visit his family.  We took advantage of this at ELIT and he  gave all staff a three day workshop at the Imam Essayouti library on how to date manuscripts by the paper used; how to recognize and use watermarks in dating, and how to change from Hijra to Gregorian calendar. This is all interesting stuff and I wish I could have been with them...they all seemed enthusiastic about the workshop, which has its last day today.

                                                                         

And a lovely thing happened yesterday which touched me. My beloved Pudiogou, (here with his wife number one and baby) the gardener’s assistant and  the chamber’maid’ at Hotel Djenne Djenno; my bogolan apprentice but above all my groom and riding companion across the dusty Sahel plains for many years, contacted me on Facebook , then wrote to  me on Messenger. This is in itself quite a source of pride, because when he came to Hotel Djenne Djenno , in 2009 perhaps, from the Dogon country he did not read. He was a student at the adult literacy evening classes which we ran in Djenne- and still run through MaliMali Projects- and learned to read and write. He was the best of all my people in Djenne and a born horseman, brave and subtle. One day he left to look after his sister who was mentally ill. He took her to a traditional healer in the Dogon country and said he would be back soon, but  he never came back. At the time he did owe us money in advances, but that was not the problem – only that we all missed him and no one knew what had happened to him. But recently I heard through Maman and Baba in Djenne that they had news of him, after several years of total silence. He was in the Ivory Coast and had managed to find a job somehow where he was earning enough money to have bought land in Fana, a town between Segou and Bamako. He had built himself a house there, and was now in the process of building another one, for his second wife! Well, that is what is called a ‘turn up for the books’ if I ever heard of one...

 This is what he wrote (in my translation of course)

‘Good evening my ‘patronne’ Sophie. How are you? I am very sorry , my mother  Sophie and I ask your forgiveness. I know my error.’

At his I sent him lots of pictures of us with my horses- like these...alas my horses are now all dead. I  said there was no need for him to worry .I was just so pleased to hear that he was OK. I often thought of our lovely rides together. He wrote back:

 I thank you for your support and understanding. I think of you often too but I have been scared to speak, but now, really I am very pleased. I wish you long life, and that God will bless you and your family.’

And I replied:

‘Ne Allah sonna, we will meet again one day’.

Grizzlier Than Thou

...is what I call a certain type of toubab one often encounters in these climes- and in the Middle East of course, or in any volatile part of the world.  They are invariably journalists or form parts of documentary film crews.  You spot them by their khaki coloured multi pocketed ‘combat style’ outfits and their pained expressions which makes it clear how committed they are to their dangerous mission in hand.  They frequently carry bullet proof vests and sometimes, like the ones I ran into this morning on the plane to Timbuktu, they even carry helmets as accessories,  nonchalantly slung over their shoulders, you understand,  never actually worn.  The interesting thing about the Grizzlier than Thou species is they NEVER acknowledge another fellow toubab traveller. I tried to catch their eyes this morning to give them a friendly smile, but they simply pretend that you are not there. I have pondered on this phenomenon frequently in my travels, and have come to the conclusion that they just don’t want you to be there. They want to feel that they are the only intrepid travellers around, going to dangerous places where others fear to tread.

I did not manage to take a picture of the Grizzlies I encountered this morning and more is the pity: they were perfect specimens. It is not recommended to ask if one can have a group shot with them.

                                                                         

But nevermind.  As the plane carried us north I was having a lot of fun in the jolly company of Colonel Obeid of the Bangla Desh Air Force (in civilian clothes right above) and two Chadians as well as one soldier from Benin, and next to me sat a civilian gentleman from Timbuktu who had also waited at the airport in vain yesterday. 

                                                                         

We were all busy taking selfies and behaving in a very childish and undignified way, quite excited by the flight and by the fact that never ceases to move me: the number of nationalities that has come together here in the name of Peace. Behind us you can just glimpse a soldier from Cambodia. The plane also held troops from Nepal and there were Tunisians and some Egyptians, among whom a most exquisitely beautiful young military policeman. I was too shy to ask for a picture...

My companions felt no need to emphasize how dangerous their missions were, although  the soldiers were certainly on their way to one of the most dangerous postings in Mali. When the plane had dropped me, my civilian friend and the Grizzlies off in Timbuktu  the rest carried on to Tessalit which holds a garrison of a hundred UN Chadian troops and 50 Bangla Deshis. Colonel Obeid explained to me that the Chadians were undertaking the most dangerous reconnaissance ground work, and the Bangla Deshis were there to support them.

 It is often said that the Malian UN mission is the deadliest  on- going peace operation in the world.  In February last year 118 peace keepers had been killed, and the past year has been just as bloody as the previous four.  It is an uncomfortable fact  that this body count is comprised almost entirely of soldiers from the neighbouring African nations.  There are in the region of 14000 UN troops in Mali, of whom ca 2000 Europeans.  Sweden contributes  350 and the  Netherlands, Germany and Belgium make up the rest. There have been no European fatalities. The explanation for this is that although each country that sends UN troops receives an equal amount of money from the United Nations per soldier, it is not all nations that choose to invest this money into their soldiers’ equipment and safety procedures.  The African nations are also the ones that choose to perform the most dangerous tasks. Their soldiers are the ones being blown up by land mines during dangerous manoeuvres which would never be accepted by the European UN contingents. Life is cheaper to these African nations, it seems. As a high ranking German UN officer explained to me, if coffins began to arrive back on German soil their  UN mission would be reduced or even withdrawn...that probably goes for all the European missions here.
 From the beginning of the Malian war, long before the MINUSMA peace keeping forces arrived, Chad came to the rescue of Mali and their soldiers fought alongside the French and Malian forces to retake the north. The Chadians have a reputation for being brave and efficient soldiers and have also been active in the fight to eliminate Boko Haram. They have lost many soldiers in Mali.  I thought of this when I looked at this sleeping Chadian soldier on the plane, on his way to Tessalit...

My 'Must-Fly' has arrived!

Well, I did take that 4 am bus from Sevare,  and the day produced all the customary hardships which 

 I know so well. Even so there is still something I like about travelling on Mali buses: it provides one with a close-up  of ordinary  Malian life, far removed from the comforts of the normal expat life style. There is an onslaught of  vendors jumping on to the bus at every stop;  there is a multitude of village produce displayed by the road side: peanuts, tomatoes, baobab 'flour', and of course fruit in season: now is the time of the mangoes.  There seems to me there is some  small consolation and justice in the fact that during the mango season even the poorest Malians can eat their fill of this most luxurious of fruits.  I love seeing   the baobabs  along the road- they are such  mysterious, alien and humourous  trees. There is surely a soul in each of them..

.

 The bus was quite new and there were two good films showing- one the famous ‘Finje’  (the Wind), 1982, by Suleyman Cisse– my Keita loved this film about the student up rising under Moussa Traore which includes a sensitive portrayal of first love with  a very erotic bathing scene.  Then followed  Cheick Oumar Sissoko’s Guimba (1995)a  costume drama mostly filmed in Djenne I believe, with gorgeous horsemen and wonderful and credible styling for a Mali of ancient but uncertain date.

Once back in Bamako the troubles that has beset this trip began once more- How to get the boxes up to Timbuktu? How to even get myself up there again? It all seemed quite impossible. I had a meeting with Ricarda from the MINUSMA who is in charge of organizing travel and transport. She did assure me that the boxes would be sent , but she could not give me a precise date. This was at least something. I  decided that with her assurance that they would take the boxes, I would be able to go up myself without the boxes and do all the other work I have to to, then leave for London as planned next week. When the boxes finally arrive, the digitizing material  will be assembled by the team without me.  So, that decision removed one of my urgent problems, but  left me with the other: how to get to Timbuktu and back in time? I was issued with a rather uncertain ticket (called an MOP- can’t think what it might stand for? ) which, as always, states that I am number five in order of importance. And lo an behold as expected this morning when I went to the airport at 4 am I found myself on Stand-By. Two planes left for Timbuktu without me. There were plenty of other Stand-Bys, mostly Tuaregs, some of them were from the CMA I noticed on the list that is posted for the passengers to find their position.  I was stand-by number 28 of 30. We all lolled about, some sleeping on the marble floor, some praying or making tea. I reflected that it was rather amusing that I found myself hanging out with ex MNLA fighters. I wonder what Keita would have thought of that...
‘Come back tomorrow at 4 am’ the MINUSMA staff finally  said to us all after we had waited for seven hours. 

I phoned Ricarda in despair. Could she do anything for me? If I don’t get on the plane tomorrow I have to postpone my return to London...I will have to take the BUS to Timbuktu unless she can help me!  She said she would do her best. And just a little while ago there was an email from her with a precious content. It is a MOP with a Must Fly status. This is a much coveted commodity that I have never had before. Each UN plane has only a few Must- Flys and here I am, one of the special ones! Thank you Ricarda!

Sorry Tales from Sevare

Warning: This is A Very Tedious And Boring Tale!

I should of course be happy today and rejoice in the perennial Good News of the Resurrection (went to joyful Easter mass at Sevare Cathedral this morning and was the only toubab present in the congregation) - However, there is no denying that the circumstances of this Easter are rather trying, and that whatever Easter joy I ought to feel has been severely squashed under a seemingly impenetrable blanket of Bad News: there will be no flight to Timbuktu for me on Tuesday. In fact there IS no flight to Timbuktu on Tuesdays from Mopti  and that fact, having been overlooked by everyone, including UNESCO themselves who make the demand to the MINUSMA (the UN forces in charge of the flights and transport)  is the reason why I have not been issued with a ticket. The boxes are still sitting in Bamako and have not yet been accepted for transport on the MINUSMA  flight northward to Timbuktu, for reasons too arcane for my simple understanding.  The new team in the new library Al Wangara in Timbuktu are officially on the payroll from today the first of April. The work is supposed to start on Tuesday.

For any dear readers who have followed my adventures since the happy days of Hotel Djenne Djenno, it comes as no surprise that I have had one – or, to be truthful, several- crises de rage- ANGER must be my worst cardinal sin, and that is one that is punished in a circle very deep down in hell as I have recently been made aware by the sublime Alighieri. It is of course not a recommended  form of behaviour to express to the cultural attaché at the MINUSMA or at UNESCO exactly how one feels about things especially if one is reliant on their support... I should of course have learned from Eva, whom I admire unreservedly for her unfailing patience and diplomatic finesse. I would have made a terrible ambassador.

So, instead of winging my way back to Timbuktu to install the second stage of the Project, I am on the XXXXing BUS TO Bamako tomorrow morning at four am, having exhausted the budget for more comfortable travel . Once in Bamako I am obliged to organize other transport for the material, and for myself- I HAVE to get to Timbuktu with this material before leaving for England. I can’t help reflecting that the difficulties of reaching Timbuktu- or indeed getting out of the place- have hardly diminished since the time of the early explorers...