Gone fishing..

Back soon I hope.
Miss Mali...

Past Pursuits

When it is all over, never let it be said that my life was not varied at least..

It is hardly possible to imagine a realm further removed from the sands of Timbuktu or from Djenne’s ancient world of mud and magic than today’s pursuit:  a day at the V&A  guiding a group of students from the London College of Style, studying the mastery of the great Cristobal Balenciaga.

 I had to pick up an old hat-as it were- that  I wore many years ago, when I used to teach fashion at various art colleges in and around London. Now, fashion is not something that has been on my mind for years. I never considered Malimali, my textile and clothing studio in Djenne to be fashion as such. But perhaps Style, yes, hopefully that! Malimali (www.malimali.org) is still just about running – or should I say limping- in Djenne with Dembele at the helm, dear Dembele, the first person I ever knew in Djenne.

This is perhaps an opportunity to delve a little deeper into the possibilities for MaliMali: I do not want it to be lost. It should be possible to keep it going,  but I need help with trying to find a way forward with marketing – all that stuff that has to be done with Instagram and FB and Twitter etc. Now, all these girls- and one boy- are enthusiastic manipulators of all that business. Hmmm... perhaps one of them could help us? Or perhaps I could try and see if we can make it a little college project? A challenge not just on paper but in real life? Let’s see... watch this space..

The Plains and Rivers of Heaven

Grey skies and indeterminate weather this New Year ’s Day 2018 in the small town of Bollnas, somewhere half way up towards the north of Sweden.  Neither cold enough to freeze and give us those crisp, exhilarating winter days I had been hoping for when the snow makes that squeaky sound under the boots  nor quite warm enough for the snow to melt. But perfect for staying in and reading.

I have been meaning to read a novel written by an  old friend for a few weeks: Anthony Gardner’s first novel ‘The Rivers of Heaven’ is an unusual medley that moves between a gritty contemporary tale about a single mother and her baby Kit on a council estate and a lyrical and apocalyptic vision of heaven. It is an original contribution to that  allegorical writing tradition where one finds the  'Pilgrim’s Progress’ and CS Lewis’ ‘The Great Divorce’ but it is also in the sublime company of  Paradise Lost and Dante’s Divine Comedy.
(And of course, when it comes to painting, no one can paint the Plains of Heaven like John Martin, above... )

Maybe these  visions of heaven are a good way to start the new year?

“...he feels no fear in this celestial garden, where suns bloom and fade like flowers against blackness- his heart is filled with the joy of endless possibility, of perpetual change within an ordered frame, of the meeting of actuality and desire.”

....

“’What do you remember?’ Kit asks her silently as they lie side by side, searching each others eyes. ‘Do you remember the fields?’

‘ Yes’ she says,’I remember the fields. I remember the thick grass, greener than anything here, wet and gleaming with dew.....’And I loved the cliffs of heaven- those great cliffs rising above the strand, white against blue, like pillars of the firmament....and from the summit, how far you could gaze, out across shining tracts of ocean, knowing that nothing there was beyond one’s reach, but nothing was circumscribed: that all one sought was found; that yearning and its fulfilment remained in dynamic tension, with the sweetness of anticipation forever undiminished by attainment.”

...

“’These are the borders of heaven’, says his great-grandfather.’Few of its inhabitants walk this way. It is a place of arrival, not departure.This is the Bridge of Relief’.

Kit looks more closely at the structure and sees that the wood from which it is made-slats, handrails, trellis-work- is of an unfamiliar kind, strong, dark and richly polished. Crouching, he runs his fingers over it and asks his grand father what it is.

‘ It is like nothing you know, for it is made of many things together: the touch of the farmer’s hand, patting his horse’s neck as he stands on a cold morning and surveys the pastures where a flood has receded; the sound of wheels on a runway as an aeroplane comes in to land; the dust on two travellers’ feet as they  find the path which will lead them down to the valley; the narrowing of a thirsty labourer’s eyes as he takes a draught from his glass of beer; the first rays of morning light above a sick man’s rumpled bed; the relaxing of the impala’s ears as the lion’s roar dies; the clenching of a defendant’s hand as the jury declares him not guilty; the disbelief on a sentinel’s face  as he glimpses a faraway banner moving towards his besieged city; a housewife’s  silent prayer as her hand closes on a lost key; the hiss of a final flame doused by a fireman’s hose; a schoolboy’s gaze as he learns from a notice–board that he has passed his final exams; the sinking of tired limbs into a hot bath; the waking of drought-stricken villagers to the sound of heavy rain; the trembling of a lover who finds the courage to declare himself.

‘All these things grow together in a single tree; and that tree grows in a forest where many fugitives have found shelter, fugitives from cruelty and injustice and despair; and this bridge is made from the wood of that tree’.

Anthony Gardner, The Rivers of Heaven, 2009

Delusions of Grandeur.

I am the sort of person that always ends up in the very last seat on an airplane, squashed in by the last window, next to the loos.

Having had a fascinating, turbulent, revelatory but nevertheless rather trying year I decided I deserved a treat and booked myself Club class for my BA flight to Sweden to see my mother and my stepfather. (well, it was a special offer...)

My fellow travellers were mostly well groomed women with expensive blonde hair and handsome husbands with the sort of golden glow that settles on people who have spent a critical mass of hours in the sunshine of Marbella or Barbados. They had Louis Vuitton luggage or similar and I was grateful that I had decided to check in my little trolley bag, which would otherwise have exposed me as the impostor and fraud I undoubtedly am. It was bought in a bargain stall on the Mile end Road and has since been impregnated with axel grease, baby vomit and chicken shit during innumerable journeys on the local bus between Bamako and Djenne.

There was also a young black man in the seat in front of me. He pulled his hood down and slept all the way through with an insouciance that impressed me. In my excitement I had to restrain myself from shaking him awake. I mean, did he not realize that there was on-tap champagne to be had? I then decided he was probably some hip hop star whose flights were always taken Club class. 

Our air steward had been studying Anthony Hopkins in ‘Remains of the Day’ and had perfected his respectful, dignified and servile manner: “Yes, Madam, Certainly Sir, May I suggest, Sir...” to which he had added a touch of conspiratorial jolliness, with some winking thrown in: “Oh go on Madam, why not have another glass of Champagne, it is Christmas after all!”

And of course I had another glass of Champagne. And lapped it all up shamelessly. 

I  mean, I’ll be down by the loos again, undoubtedly, for my next long haul flight to Mali in March...

La Divina Commedia

Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita
mi ritrovai per una selva oscura,
ché la diritta via era smarrita.
Midway upon the journey of our life
I found myself within a forest dark,
For the straightforward pathway had been lost.

Plans were forged tonight. I used to have a Tuesday 'Salon' (so they called it) in my Ladbroke Grove flat, but I am loathe to return  to the past and will not start the Tuesdays again, at least not in the original form.  Nevertheless a new idea took shape tonight. Venerable members of the Ladbroke Grove Tuesdays turned up for Mulled Wine. Anthony G came first and we talked of Dante. Then he told me of last year's reading group who had done Milton's Paradise Lost. Then others came and we decided to throw ourselves into La Divina Commedia in the New Year. This will happen chez moi. Details to be communicated to interested parties.What fun to be in London!

A MERRY CHRISTMAS FROM LADBROKE GROVE!

Ladbroke Grove.

Although I arrived back last Saturday, my full return to London has been gradual and a little reluctant in my mind. My foot is still sore and has been keeping in me inside, where I have been working on necessary stuff to wrap up what was achieved and decided in Timbuktu and Djenne. Darling Kathy came over with groceries. I have seen people walking below in the street carrying their Christmas trees, and today I decided to brave it and limped over to the corner florist and bought myself a big tree.

 I then went through the time honoured traditions which must be re-enacted every year at the decoration of the Christmas tree. This  includes playing the Messiah and drinking Amontillado while I turn my attention on each little decoration one by one  before putting them on the tree. The most venerable of all is the little green bell that comes from my grandmother’s home which I have been putting on nearly all the Christmas trees of my life since I was able to walk; then come the  red and grey Santas made from yarn with cotton wool beards that I made with my mother as a child; there is the garland of flags which I painted for a Christmas in the highlands of Papua New Guinea; there are the 2 ‘Coeur de Lion’ small heart shaped Camembert lids which served as nearly our only decorations on the tree that wonderful Christmas a long time ago in the garret in Cambridge Gardens with Martin;

 there is the long red bead chain I picked from a tree in New Orleans (left over from Mardi Gras). And this year there are the little angels made from old spray cans from Mali which join the rest of this flotsam from my life.

Here we are, Keita and I, putting them up for our last Christmas together in 2015.

Christmas is wonderful of course, but there is no denying that it can be bittersweet now and then for those who have lost someone close. I have lost Keita, I have lost the hotel. The new chapter has only just begun and its unknown course lies before me like the virgin pages of a new sketchbook.
Later: Oh! come on, Sophie, in that you are not so unique. Everybody else's future is made up from blank pages too. It is called the human condition.

 Hurrah for the second series of the Crown! Off to J in a minute to blanket- watch the last episodes with wine and TV supper on our laps... Fabulous.

Mission Accomplished

Sitting by the Christmas tree in the vast Swedish Residence all alone. I am leaving for the airport and Europe in an hour. Eva has left already a couple of days ago, but kind as always she allowed me to stay.

I arrived from Timbuktu yesterday courtesy of the UN flight. It has been an intense month here. One always has the feeling that at any moment the precarious structure that has been built up over the last ten months with our library project in Timbuktu could collapse like a house of cards. I had some time in Timbuktu before my collegues arrived: Father Columba who was with me when we were evacuated in August, and this time also my friends Dmitry Bondarev and his wife Klara: he a linguist and manuscript expert who has been associated with the work in the Djenne Manuscript Library. Before they arrived, our new staff had time to air their views to me. I was struck by the difference between the Timbuktu staff and those in Djenne. These are much more demanding, and to be fair, are also much better educated. They have worked well and after the difficult beginning they are now well on their way and have digitized more than 300 manuscripts already. I was bombarded by requests for pay rises, for swivelling office chairs, for refrigerators and mopeds and, curiously, for MILK. There is some sort of idea  that the manuscripts harbour bacteria and dust that can only be counteracted by the drinking of milk.

I tried my best to explain that when a project is put together the budgets are fixed and that there is not much lea way for the increase of salaries. Certain things we could help with such as the milk request and perhaps the refrigerator. They became quite stroppy with me, and I couldn’t help thinking of the time I had interviewed them in July, when they were so keen to get their first job that they made no demands at all. As far as the pay rises went, I was pleased to be able to refer them to my collegues who were to arrive shortly...

The negociations that followed when Columba and Dmitry arrived were tough for other reasons also, and there arrived a moment when I needed to bring out the spectre of the project being closed down, but in the end I believe we rode out the storm and we came out on the other side with our feathers ruffled but intact. We made a courtesy visit to Imam Essayouti , an experience which  Fr. Columba describes  as similar to  having an audience with the Pope or the Dalai Lama. It is true, he has a great aura.

We also visited the Imam  of the Sankore Mosque (below) and his family library the Al Aquib, an important library which remains in Timbuktu.

Nothing is easy and everything is extreme in Timbuktu and regarding this project. To get on the UN flight is never certain, culture being Priority number 5 on the list of importance. And yesterday I was on standby only. Fortunately there is my friend Joau, the Spanish UN employee who has the last word at the airport on who gets on a plane and who doesn’t... and somehow he always manages to squeeze me on in the end. 

Back to London now. A different world... I have received continual emails about a Christmas dinner I am invited to in London. These messages keep talking about turkeys and Christmas trees and what games we shall play and films we shall watch, whether there should be Christmas presents (of course!) and whatnot. I have had difficulties  relating to these problems but no doubt the Spirit of Christmas will descend on me once I put my bandaged foot on English soil again...