Illegal Christmas

We have just spent an illegal Christmas here in my Ladbroke Grove Flat- Andrew and Pia who were first with me for that legendary trip to Mali at  Christmas and New Year 2005-6, and Ralf. our German friend. 

It was illegal in so far as we all live alone, so therefore, under the emergency laws now in force we were all only strictly allowed to see one more person, and that was supposed to be outside! So that was of course no good...

There was a way of breaking the law which  let us off the hook at the same time as remaining safe in the knowledge that we were not spreading the disease...

 I had found a pharmacy in Portobello Road that made 20 minute  while-u-wait-Covid tests. Before my guests arrived, they had to go and get themselves tested... then come straight to Ladbroke Grove.  

Fortunately we were all Negative, so we could carry on and celebrate Christmas together. Christmas Eve was a Swedish affair, below with the Swedish Pia- there was herring of course, and Janssons Frestelse, and Julskinka and Glogg and Schnapps and smoked Elk sausage  and Ris a la Malta...  other nations had culinary representations in the form of Champagne and Panettoni of course...

And it went on to Christmas Day when Britain was finally represented in the form of a traditional Turkey dinner with all the trimmings including Pigs in Blankets, Cranberry sauce and Brussel Sprouts with chestnuts etc. and a marvellous Christmas Pud from the Garrick Club! 

Andrew below is wearing his mask for a moment as a means of identifying the year for future reference... there was the Queen's speech- lovely I thought- then prezzies for every one- before we were supposed to play those obligatory games- but the Charades were dropped by the way-side this year, as instead we all sank happily into watching a great double bill of Graham Greene stories- both famous classics: first Brighton Rock (the 1948 version of course), then the Third Man. 

 

It was interesting to see these two in succession, because they both feature two great Greene heroines who love their villainous men with a sort of unconditional, religious fervour. In the case of the angelic Rose, she is able to remain with  the merciful delusion  that Pinkie loved her; while Anna, on the contrary, knows fully the depth of Harry Lime's crimes, she even understands that he didn't love her. It doesn't matter to her. Her rejection of Martins when she walks past him without acknowledgment in the final scene is sublime...

After all a lovely Christmas in these strange times!

Picnics galore

has been the survival mechanism in this bizarre year. And yesterday was no exception. Some months  after we would normally have abandoned the park benches and grassy slopes for the comfort of a roaring fire in a lovely country pub, we are still gathering in the increasingly fresh air...

                                           

And here we are, having our picnic,  in Chalfont St. Giles where the pub to the left behind us no doubt would have been able to offer us  that roaring fire, but  was not able to let us in of course.  Amersham, the last outpost of the Metropolitan line, was the  beginning of our 9mile (15 k) circular walk, which included visiting (the outside of)  Milton's house where he is said to have finished Paradise Lost.

It was our book club outing. This book club is a very elastic and tenacious affair, able to mould itself around whatever circumstances is thrown at it. For two and a half years we were 'the Dantistas', who nearly managed to get through the Divine Comedy at my flat on Wednesdays, but when only half of Paradiso remained we were stopped in our tracks by this pandemic. Something lighter was needed, and we read Love in the Time of Cholera while our meetings became either ZOOM or mutated into socially distanced picnics in the summer months. 

And then our reading material became even shorter- now we read a short story a week, working through a series of the genre's greats: Flannery O'Connor, Katherine Mansfield, Raymond Carver etc. And sometimes we even read one we have penned ourselves! But, we will return to Dante once day...

 We ran into some very friendly horses, in a muddy field and I reflected how very fat they are in comparison to horses in Mali!

                                                                   

And that brings me back to that dear subject again: I will be leaving for Mali and Djenne at the end of January, inchallah, to see 'my' people in the library in particular. The project is still running and I speak to them every Saturday morning on WhatsApp.  Until then I spend most of my days trying to put the Djenne memoir into shape...on the second draft now. 

The Queen's Gambit

 Lockdown again, but there are some consolations, thankfully. The new instalment of The Crown is beginning on Sunday- hurray! and of course everyone is going crazy for the excellent Netflix series 'The Queens Gambit'. All those people who never wanted to play chess with me are now taking lessons online...that is of course great news. I have played all my life. It is the game of the Gods!

When  my friend Neville came to visit me at  Hotel Djenne Djenno in 2008 he brought me the novel 'The Queen's Gambit' by Walter Tevis. as  a present because he knew I loved the game. I loved the book too, and read it twice. So I was very pleased that it was turned into a Netflix series.

This new collective chess fever reminded me of a time towards the end of my life in Mali, and I thought it may be worth re-posting what I wrote in  August 2016. I called the Blog post

                                      'Chess Psychosis:'

 

"I am a very mediocre chess player but that doesn’t stop me from spending hours every day recently playing chess on my computer (Microsoft  Chess Titans: the reason why I refuse to update my Windows from Windows 7) There is something here in Mali that is not conducive to reading: I read in England and in Sweden but here I find myself watching old favourite movies and TV series  on DVDs that I bring out from Europe instead. To counteract this passivity and to give myself some mental stimulation – and frankly mainly because I find it exciting- I play a lot of chess. 

My love affair with this game started when I was around twelve, thirteen: my next door neighbour and class mate Britta and I lived a brief moment in search of ‘cultural refinement’  and in our youthful view of things we  saw this state as something that could be achieved through playing chess and listening to classical music. I remember many happy afternoons at her place playing chess and listening to the Brandenburg concertos. Then soon after we discovered boys and other distractions that led us astray from this pure and virtuous road towards refinement and enlightenment.

I did not forget chess entirely  though, and when I lived in Islington in London in the eighties and  early nineties I ran a  chess club every Thursday for three years. Anybody could come and I never knew who would turn up. We did have one or two grand masters  who graced our club once or twice  but it was a light-hearted sort of chess club because alcohol was served and of course alcohol + chess do not mix. But never mind- there was plenty of laughter and there was drawing going on too and poetry- making  by anyone who had not found a partner yet: I still have three glorious ‘chess diaries’ from those happy Thursdays.  I also have my friend Biggles’ (who drew the chess problem above) wonderful chess biscuit cutters that he made for me which he presented me with when he arrived on the chess club’s first anniversary: he had made a chocolate and shortbread chess board with all the chess pieces which were to be eaten as they were taken! It goes perhaps without saying that most of my friends at this time were artists...One of them , dear Stirling, sent me a parcel as Christmas greeting one year. When I opened it I found three kings from three different Chess sets.

That was Islington. Then in the nineties I moved to Notting Hill and lo and behold: noone wanted to play chess!  (An opportunity for a study by an anthroplologist or sociologist perhaps?) So I opened my Tuesday ‘salon’ where people played all sorts of things but not normally chess.

I am just recovering from a rather nasty attack of malaria. It sounds more alarming than it is because there are remedies that are tried and trusted so no one that can afford to pay should need to be suffering for more than three of four days at the most. But there is no doubt that the first couple of days are quite rough. Keita’s old collegue Barry came and gave me injections and they lowered my fever and stopped my vomiting . But I was clearly not in a state to do anything strenuous and I needed to rest. So I started to play chess. This turned out to be a big mistake. Chess should only be played in good health, and even then it should not be overdone. I  remember when I started my chess club in Islington that I became ‘overheated’- that is I played too much . That means one gets into a neurotic state when one sees everything around one as chess pieces and one becomes a chess piece oneself. I mean that if I am walking down a corridor and someone is walking straight towards me I feel that I have to decide whether I am a bishop or a rook and therefore whether I should move out of the way diagonally or crash straight into the oncoming person, taking it. It never actually got to that point but the temptation was there and that was annoying enough.

So I played too much chess and I watched  (once more!)  too much Downton Abbey yesterday. These two past times turned out to be an unholy marriage and the  result was quite frightening in my malarial state. When I had finally had enough and decided to go to bed I could not sleep because I was suffering from chess overheating. The very annoying thing was that everything had turned into chess pieces again, just like that time in Islington. I mean that the chairs in Cousin Isabel’s drawing room had started to move like chess pieces in my mind when I closed my eyes.  When I opened them to escape this  I found that the few light sources I leave on when I sleep here alone now had also become chess pieces. There was no escaping it. I was tired so I decided to pray for peace to go to sleep but this didn’t work either; I found myself transported onto a big chess board in the sky where  I was kneeling in front of the King with all sorts of nasty looking enemy bishops and knights looking down on me ready to pounce! I suppose this King eventually did answer my prayers because I did fall asleep from utter exhaustion in the end..."

 

My frequent commentator David then sent a comment drawing my attention to a great little silent film which is available on Youtube: Shakhmati Goryachki (Chess Fever)https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3RXplN1CJnc&t=13s

It is charming and well worth checking out!

The Last Again!

It was a lovely sunny day yesterday. It was also the last day before England closed down once again in a Covid lockdown. This day needed to be celebrated and have all its possibilities squeezed out from it!

 I was excited by yet  another invitation by David for a music event- this time it was a concert by the City of London Symphonietta at Southwark Cathedral- they were to play Haydn's London Symphony at 2pm. So I thought I would walk. 

The route from Ladbroke Grove to Southwark Cathedral is almost a perfect diagonal trajectory from north west to south east central London across some of the city's  loveliest territory: I crossed Hyde Park where I saw my destination in the far, far distance: the Shard, that beautiful spike of a sky scraper where I was treated to a great dinner  by my Minnesota bosses almost exactly a year ago, is just next to Southwark cathedral and seen faintly here in the centre of the picture above the Serpentine.

            I crossed Hyde Park Corner  and continued through Green Park, up the Mall to Trafalgar Square                                                                 

and then crossed the river, ending up at the south bank, which was full of people that had had the same idea as I, wanting to enjoy London for the last time, milling about by  the river side cafes, bars and restaurants.

I was worried about time and walked fast. I had never walked this way before but wanted to find out whether it was possible to walk all the way by the river- and of course it was: it has been possible since 1977, when the Silver Jubilee walkway was put in place to celebrate the Queen's 25th year on the Throne.   http://jubileewalkway.org.uk 

When I passed the 'Wobbly Bridge'- that's what people have been calling the  Millenium Bridge since it  had to be fixed and stabilized when it first opened and 'wobbled' in 2000- I had about half an hour to go ...

 

I passed the Globe and there, suddenly it was! Southwark Cathedral with the Shard keeping it company  in safe social distance...It had taken me almost exactly 2 hours. I thoroughly recommend this walk for an experience of London!

The concert was beautifully played with Haydn's last triumphant symphony joining the sunshine to make the day a joyous last fanfare before it all closed down today again...and David took me for Tapas and wine in the lovely, trendy Borough market after the concert where  hundreds of people had the same idea but we were lucky to find a table. A lovely day!

                                                Da

And more divine song again!

I have been blessed with being invited to yet  another heavenly performance: Yesterday it was the first time  that The Royal Opera House opened its doors again since March, allowing first and second year students of  their Jette Parker Young Artists Programme to perform French, Italian and Russian songs - Liszt Poulenc, Strauss, Rachmaninov and Tchaikovsky ...

Dear David took me and we had the best seats in the Linbury Theatre downstairs at the ROH- but then David is of course a Music Critic Extraordinaire and here is his revue: 

https://www.theartsdesk.com/opera/meet-young-artists-week-recital-linbury-theatre-%E2%80%93-four-big-personalities

I was childishly thrilled and proud to see that he took one of my suggestions on board-I am not an opera aficionado and normally don't have anything interesting to contribute-I am just happy to tag along... but this time  I thought the  Russian mezzo/contralto Kseniia Nikolaieva (above) was full of drama and had the look and sound of Azucena  in Il Trovatore and said so to David. And  he wrote in his revue:  "Hers is a big voice unleashed with enough power to tell us that with careful handling she will undoubtedly go where her compatriots Olga Borodina and Ekaterina Semenchuk have already trod, in roles with very specific voice-type requirements like Verdi’s Azucena in Il trovatore." (!!!)

                                

And meanwhile, back in Mali, another sort of song takes place as Maouloud has once more been celebrated. The festival commemorating the birth of the Prophet Mohammed  is the most important of all in  Djenne and I was often invited to the Fatias, or the Koran recitations held by the great Djenne families which I knew through the Manuscript Library. Sometimes the melodious chanting would carry on all night and  would hear it drifting across from the many Koran schools in town as I lay under the mosquito net in the warm night...

The Last and the First...

...visit to the English National Opera at London's Coliseum- that is to say: on the 14th of March I went to see the 'Mariage of Figaro' there with a happy little group of friends. We did not know that that was the very last evening such things were possible. It was the very last normal day in London before everything locked down.

And on this Saturday, the 24th of October the Coliseum opened its doors once more, and I was there again with my old Swedish friend Pia  for this first performance - 'socially distanced'  of course with only about one third of the seats available and filled. And once more it was Mozart- a performance  from  Opera students singing a selection of famous arias - the love duets at a safe distance...Nevermind that. The grateful audience was  loving being there again. The enthusiasm was infectious and the bravo's, clapping and whistling made it all sound like La Scala Milan.  

God knows we all want some reason to clap and cheer now as the light is fading and the temperature is sinking while the Covid count is rising and Pandemic fatigue is settling down on London.

But life carries on regardless in it inexorable way and the habits that have taken hold in during these strange months continue- such as my Chess Sundays with my friend Ralf from the German embassy- he kindly lets me practice my German on him, but he is less kind when it comes to the chess and does not let me win very often. Here is last Sunday's game, black to move. I am white and I have got him on the ropes for once- to be continued next Sunday.

And the walks continue- now the winter clothes have once more made their appearance as the year is turning towards its close. We started walking in March and we still continue to walk. I wonder how many hundreds of miles up and down and around the streets and Parks of London...?

Dreams and plans of moving to warmer climes or to the country still figure but nothing is decided yet- I have put my flat on the market but I am beset by feelings of uncertainty and a the future is just a huge question mark. Nevermind. I guess it will be OK. Or will it?
 

Good News, Duncan, and Little Venice.

First of all, we have probably all heard the very good news from Mali, where finally Soumi (Soumaila Cisse, three time Presidential Candidate) has been released from captivity where he has languished since last March, when he was kidnapped by Jihadists in the region of Nianfounke. At the same time Sophie Petronin, a French aid worker kidnapped in Gao in 2016 was also released. This was accomplished by the new interim government, showing some muscle. It did cost them in the region of 100 Jihadi prisoners in the exchange however... these have now been let lose in the North once more, and can be expected to cause further mayhem...

Other good Mali news includes the lifting of sanctions against Mali by the neighbouring ECOWAS countries who have recognized the fact that the Junta leaders have conformed to demands:  there is now a civilian interim  president, Bah Ndaw, while the coup leader Assimi Goita has contented himself with a second position as the vice-president. In addition, the transition will take 18 months rather than the 3 years first proposed.

And moving on to Europe and other matters altogether, I was most intrigued to read in the Guardian yesterday morning that a large treasure of homo-erotic drawings by Duncan Grant have been handed over  to the  Charleston Trust. These drawings were supposedly kept under a bed for decades, out of view because of their 'private nature'. The picture below illustrates one of the drawings shown in the Guardian. There was also another, which involved four men- it was more explicit in that it showed erections.  It was quite a beautiful drawing in its composition, but it was very  difficult and intriguing to try and understand what was going on...

And this morning I read the same story in Svenska Dagbladet, which is my Swedish daily. I giggled a little, and was surprised that they had decided, coyly, to represent the drawings only by  a picture of three pillows! Presumably illustrating the fact that they were supposed to have been hidden under a bed... I mean, when I looked into it I found that even the Daily Mail had been able to show something of the drawings- albeit the top part of the men only...

 Now I decided to check back to what had been in the Guardian yesterday, and found, to my chagrin, that the athletic and intriguing orgy had been removed. So even the Guardian had been the victim of some censorship it appears...

I have always loved Duncan Grant's work  and I am the lucky owner of this  small drawing below. 

And meanwhile autumn is painting its warmth in the brilliance of the trees while the temperature is sinking elsewhere and  blue skies are infrequent...

I keep walking, and walking....

 

A Scam

 This self isolation is having an effect. I am beginning to have feelings quite rare to me. For instance, I am wondering whether life would be worth living if one is totally on one's own? The answer I come up with is a resounding NO. 

The interesting thing is that  when one feels really alone one often doesn't have the wish to contact anyone either- it is as if the batteries of life have run too low and there is not enough 'juice' left to ring anyone. 

And I don't really sleep very well- therefore I finally fell asleep about four o'clock this morning. At nine o'clock I was awoken by a phone call. A man with a strong Asian accent which made it quite difficult to understand him told me that he was calling on behalf of the HMRC Tax Office. He was seemingly calling from a call centre because there was a lot of noise in the back ground. He said that I had been under a random investigation by the HMRC during the last few months and that my tax contributions had been found to be fraudulent. He continued by saying that the phone call was directly connected to the police who were listening in. 

Maybe I should have  realized immediately that it was a scam and  just put the phone down, but it was somehow convincing for a little while- maybe because I had just woken up and not yet gathered my wits about me.  He proceeded to list the 4 charges levelled against me: 

1. Count 1: "Violation of HMRC code"

2. Count 2: "Violation of Her Majesty's Gov. Regulations"

3. "Tapped by Decaption"-( It was virtually impossible to hear what he was saying so I might have got this wrong.)

4. " Wilful Misrepresentation to Government Organization".

The government was giving me a chance to get out of this if I cooperated.  I owed  them  £1280. I objected and said I did not believe that the HMRC would use these kind of  tactics and that normally they would send me a letter notifying me that there was a problem and explaining how I could resolve it. He said that procedures had been sharpened and changed because of the Corona Virus crisis and these were extreme measure that were now necessary. ( He made this sound convincing somehow.) If I did not comply the government would freeze my bank account, I would have my passport confiscated and I would "have a black flag against my name". 

All of this was by now beginning to sound increasingly fishy, as I was regaining full consciousness. 

" So you mean that I have to pay you £1280 right now, without even understanding the charges levelled against me?" He replied that it was not about the money, but he was offering me a chance to escape being black listed and even arrested. I said " I don't believe you". He replied" the police is listening in and an officer will be arriving at your address within 45 minutes to arrest you". I said "Fine, let him do that" and put the phone down. Then I phoned the police. They told me it was a very common scam, and that it had been going for years. It had been particularly successful recently, as people believed that the Covid 19 had really somehow altered the normal procedures.

That is probably the most exciting thing that will happen today. At least I sincerely hope so.

Tomorrow I can start living a normal life again, maybe for a few days? Until they close us all down again. 

I will just have sustain myself by thinking  of happier days- here just two weeks ago in the hills of Bamako with Swedish Eira and Jakarta, Karen's dog.

God Bless P.J. Harvey

Sitting here in my self isolation. Being a good girl. Well, not QUITE. I do go for walks but don’t talk to anyone. Not even on park benches.

But there is no doubt that now, on the 6^th day of quarantine it is getting to me.

So, thank God for PJ Harvey! I had forgotten about real music- the sort of music that makes one feel alive, capable of jumping over little houses and Wild at Heart. As if there is still Life to be lived. And that it up to me to go and Get It.

So All Hail Polly Jane!

"Meet Ze Monsta! "

“This is Love This is Love This is Love that I’m Feelin..!”

 

Farewell to General Moussa Traore

 

 

General Moussa Traoré  who ruled Mali  for more than 22 years died in Bamako yesterday at the age of 83. I have a picture of him on my wall in London.  This causes some raised eyebrows, since he was a dictator who ousted the first Malian president Modibo Keita in a coup in 1968. He was himself removed by a coup masterminded by Amadou ToumaniToure  in 1991. (The latter was of course also eventually removed by a coup in 2012...and so it goes on.)

Now, there are dictators and dictators. Let's be clear: Moussa was no Idi Amin. Many in Mali feel that the time during Moussa was  a stable time and  that the country has not improved since. A golden shimmer has gradually settled upon Moussa over time, helped along by gentle forgetfulness and the Malian people's ability to forgive almost anything. 

My Keita's father, Colonel Abdoulaye Keita was a personal friend of Moussa's and when Keita was a baby he bounced on Moussa's lap. That is the explanation for his picture on my wall, which I appropriated from Keita's wall after his death and therefore my soft feelings towards Moussa, dictator or not...

Alpha Oumar Konare, the civilian president who followed Moussa, pardoned him and had his death sentence removed.   Since 2002 Moussa was  able to  live in peaceful, genteel retirement, enjoying a status as an elder statesman, being visited by politicians and elite military including Colonel Assimi Goita, the leader of  the current  junta who sought his advice only a few days ago to outline a transition to civilian rule. 

RIP Moussa Traore.

 

It feels like a privilege to be here at this important moment for Mali. As always I wanted to see Dr. Guida Landoure, an intimate friend of my Keita's and an eminent neurologist.  He is right in the thick of things- in fact is is part of the M5-RFP, the coalition of various civilians and opposition politicians who orchestrated the uprisings this summer which culminated in the coup d'etat.

 Guida came to see me at Hotel Badala last night, straight from a meeting with some high powered other members of the group:  Cheick Oumar Sissoko, the film maker and former Minister of Culture is one of them. I was excited to hear that because I sat next to him for a dinner once at the Danish Ambassador's place (yes, yes, I know I am name dropping..)and he was a delight. I found out that he had never seen Babette's Feast, and I told him that it was a catastrophy for a celebrated film maker like him never to have seen it. The next time I went to Bamako I brought him the DVD which I delivered at the Malian film institute. But I digress... According to Guida the Western diplomats are wary of Sissoko who they think is too left wing. But Guida and some are proposing him for interim president.

 Guida told me that Dicko, the powerful cleric with Wahabist leanings who was instrumental in organising the uprisings and who has made out that his job is now  done and that he is  withdrawing is not telling the truth- he is still highly active in and around  M5-RFP. Now this might be a worrying thing- it would of course be best to keep religion out of it as much as possible.... But Guida is not worried about Dicko. Guida is very upbeat about it all and  still thinks it is possible to carve out a better Mali from the present  situation, although they are experiencing some trouble with the junta, whose recent 'roadmap' for the transition period was not acceptable to them because it stated that the president during the transition period could be either a civilian or from the military, although in earlier consultations it had been decided that the interim president must be a civilian. This U-turn made the group announce that

"M5-RFP distances itself from the ... document which does not reflect the views and decisions of the Malian people". 

So, let's see...the embargo continues and the neighboring ECOWAS (Economic Community of West African State) has given the ruling junta one week to chose an interim government.

And otherwise... my morning hikes with Karen continues in the green hills of Bamako!

Life goes on...

 

Life goes on in Mali for most of its people as if there hadn’t been any coup d’etat. And I suppose for most people it won’t make any difference. For the poor- by far the greatest part of the population- who struggle to put enough food on the table for their families every day life exists from day to day and nothing changes, only the clemency or the severity of the seasons. Above is one of the many enterprising market gardeners who attempt to make a living on the side of the road in Bamako.

 The Djennenke  (the population of Djenne) are suffering the severity of a particularly abundant rainy season just now. There has been unprecedented rainfall and many houses have fallen. However much I sympathize with the Djennenke in their plight, I can’t help feeling selfishly relieved that I am no longer in charge of a mud hotel… The rainy season was always a nightmare, because in happier times the beginning of the rainy season used to coincide with the ‘Spanish Season’, when southern Europeans tend to take their holidays. My guests would be slipping and sliding on the forecourt of Hotel Djenne Djenno trying – often unsuccessfully-to reach their rooms or the bar without falling over in the slurry descending from my mud walls which were disintegrating in the onslaught of the Mali tempests. 

                                                                                   

The picture above  illustrates quite graphically what happens on mud walls if they are not cared for- the Museum is falling apart. It was one of those gifts from Western coffers- the EU. Noone here actually wanted a Museum I believe. It is a very European idea. The locals said 'yes, thanks, sure we want a Museum if that is what you want to do.' It has been there for about ten years now. There has never been any exhibitions there and it is virtually unused. It is now a problem because it is huge and it needs to be looked after with a yearly mud plastering but since no one is really interested in a Museum it will now stand there and disintegrate. The gate below is the entrance to the area which houses the Campement hotel and the Mairie. This is falling apart because since the disappearance of the tourists all the impetus has gone out of maintaining any of the beauty of Djenne’s  architecture. 

                                                                          

  

More or less all the communal buildings are neglected - this the Post Office in a sorry state of repair:

                                                                               

The Mosque and the Library are the only ones that are receiving that all important  yearly mud plastering.                                                       

The problem about the rainy season here is that no one goes out. I am sitting here alone in my ‘suite’ at the venerable Campement Hotel. I have had my dinner, brought to me by Papa, my old chef at Hotel Djenne Djenno who knows what I like to eat- this evening he brought the  coleslaw I taught him to make with some grilled chicken and tomorrow he will bring me ‘GadoGado’ a Dutch Indonesian inspired dish that my  Dutch friend Birgit taught him to prepare. It is lovely to be able to see ‘my’ old staff. I am not about to go slipping and sliding around town so this will be an unusually ‘stay in’ visit to Djenne.

The local people I speak to are mostly the people I work with at the library or old friends of Keita’s. They are nearly all in favour of the coup d’etat and  the removal of IBK, even the members of his own party. Tomorrow I will try and venture down the slippery alley where my old friend Yelpha the Imam lives to see what he thinks about it all…

 

The Fall of IBK

    Scenes of Deja Vu yesterday in Mali, as a new coup ends IBK's reign. The same message that was seen in 2012 on the Malian TV screens announces  'soon a message from the military' for several long nail biting hours, until finally a line- up of army officers read out a prepared message to the Malian people:  they have been 'liberated' from the mismanagement of  the government and a new dawn has broken.                                                                         

                

But first the resignation speech by IBK- with a mask muffling his farewell words to the people: 'I am stepping down- what choice do I have? I do not wish blood to be spilled in my name.'

And when the  military finally did appear on screen about midnight (the new CNSP - Comite National pour le Salut du Peuple) they were made up of higher grades than Captain Sanogo and his Comrades in Arms in 2012. They were also more coherent and their 'spokesman' Colonel Ismael Wague delivered a well prepared and stirring address to the Malian people about their intentions to wipe out corruption and restore confidence in the faltering Malian institutions- the schools, the military and its response to the continuing crisis in the North and Centre of the country etc.  Their goals would be reached through the staging of elections and the democratic process would be upheld. (Ahem?)

It has all be said before of course. IBK promised these things to the people at his landslide victory over Soumaila Cisse in August 2013.

It was indeed a bloodless coup so far, after months of demonstrations in the streets of Bamako. The city is calm now says my friend Karen. 

There are of course differences between 2012 and 2020 which could work in favour of peace: since 2012 the UN peacekeeping mission MINUSMA are already present in the country in the form of  a vast network of troops deployed in key areas of the county. There is also the Barkhane mission, the French Sahel force of over 5000 soldiers with offensive mandate which will be joined by British and Swedish troops this year in the fight against the growing anti terrorism threat in the area. 

And what about my trip to Mali, booked on the 1st of September and much longed for and necessary for the continuing of the projects in Timbuktu and Djenne, I selfishly wonder... Please, please! let it all remain calm.