Guerilla warfare at Bamako Conference

                                                                           

From my vantage point at the Starbucks Café at Mohammed V airport of Casablanca I am looking out over the morning activity on the runways that extend before me in the hazy sun of the chill North African morning. A couple of planes are taxing slowly getting into position for take off and others are being loaded from the provision transports with lunches for passengers who will be flying off in all directions of the world shortly- one of them me, on my way to London.

                                                                               

My visit to Mali took me to Bamako only this time, for a conference on the manuscripts of the Sahel organized by UNESCO. My participation was only decided a day before it started and I jumped on a plane under a cloud of confusion on whether I was invited at all, and the event took on a dimension of guerrilla warfare… I had at first received an email asking me if I could attend the conference, I replied in the affirmative. I heard nothing back. So after a week I inquired what was going on. They now pretended as if they had not received my acceptance email.  Then there appeared to be problems finding me a room. I said never mind, I can find my own accommodation. Now they developed problems finding me a flight, and it all smelled as if if behind the scenes I had been ‘disinvited’. By this stage I had got the bit between my teeth and what had been a fairly luke warm proposition- a four day conference in Bamako- took on new dimensions of importance. Father Columba agreed, I should go, they would pay even if UNESCO didn’t. My Italian colleague Maria Luisa Russo was going to be there, and also Dmitry Bondarev, the Arabic Scholar who has been my friend and associate from the very first day of my involvement with the Malian manuscripts, when my British Library contacts sent me over to SOAS to meet him in 2008. 

Maria Luisa offered to give me half of her 15 minutes lecture time so I would also have a chance to speak. This was done, and when I stood up to give my address it was totally unexpected- I spoke about the work of the British Library in Djenne and also of course about our work in Timbuktu. At the same time I announced the new project which will start in March in Djenné.

Readers of this as well as my earlier journal djennedjenno.blogspot.com may recall that throughout my eleven years of involvement with the Malian manuscripts, first and foremost the Djenné ones and later the ones in Timbuktu, there have been various factions that have been less than friendly towards the work we have carried out. These negative forces have included the attack of the Djenné Village Chief on the projects- see blog entry 'A Day in Two Halves' from Dec 8, 2018, and all sorts of other shenanigans in Djenné and beyond, one involving the intervention of the former British ambassador Jo Adamson, and I permit myself to quote from a previous blog post from the DjenneDjenno blog, exactly five years ago: 

Back in Bamako more great events unfolded: an International Conference of Malian manucripts had been organized by UNESCO at the end of January. At the beginning of the month Lassana Cissé, the ‘Directeur National du Patrimoine’ had written me an email alerting me to the fact that the list of participants was being drawn up but that Djenné Manuscript Library was only represented by one person. The other people from Djenné were the Imam and the Maire and one person who owns a small private  library set up by Abdel Kader Haidara, the eminence grise and king of the Malian manuscript world,  who has  also put the Imam’s library in place. Abdel Kader was also in charge of the invitations to the conference. Since we are representing over one hundred Djenné families by now, it was quite ridiculous that we should only have one representative.  I phoned up UNESCO in Bamako and complained. They begrudgingly asked me to send the names of the people I wanted to invite, but said these would not be receiving any money for travel costs or lodging, since they had not been invited by the conference but by me.

I now got on to the British Ambassador Jo Adamson who had kindly promised me to give an evening for the Djenne Manuscript Library. Would it not be possible to do this evening in connection with this conference? I asked. She agreed and the date was set for the 29^th,  the last day of the conference. Overjoyed, I called Lassana Cissé again and told him the news: he confered with UNESCO and it was decided that the evening for the Djenné Manuscript Library at the luxurious  Hotel Salam would be a finale to the whole conference! 

I now received phonecalls first of all from Abdel Kader and then from UNESCO: “of course! there had never been any doubt about our being part of the conference! And of course all four delegates from the Djenné Manuscript Library would receive their travel and lodging expenses! There had never been any question about that- it had been a misunderstanding”...

Well, plus ça change…

 We were back in the same hotel Salam again. Jo Adamson was there again, no longer as the British ambassador but in her new role as deputy to the Mali UN chef and attending a conference in the hall next door.  Once more, there was only one representative from the Djenné Manuscript Library invited- Babou Touré. The library now represents 150 Djenné families and their collections. There are more than 10000 manuscripts in the Djenné library which is an important resource now, but still as neglected as ever.  

But nevermind! Onwards! I am back in Djenné in March to set up the new project. Will also be present for the opening ceremony at the Djenné hospital for the 7^th yearly edition of the free Cataract operations in memory of my Keita, still paid for by my dear cousin Pelle and his wife Nanni, and will even be able to do some Bogolan with Dembele who is still working in our old bogolan studio in Djenne, since the new owner of my land has not moved in yet, and is letting the studio to Dembele.

After the conference I stayed three days with Karen and we managed a great hike again every morning in the lovely hills around Bamako.

                                                                             

and finally, this is rather a hilarious illustration from an American magazine article about Father Columba's (and Walid's and mine) trial during the attack of the MINUSMA Headquarters West in Timbuktu- see August 2017.

and couldn't resist putting in this great shot of Columba and me in that same city last December...

This is what Joy feels like.

I am not sure why I should be feeling so absolutely Happy.
 I mean, I should concentrate on being a London Artist, or on trying to write My Book. But I continue being tied so closely to  Mali, and life somehow is still circling around Mali...
I spoke to Father Columba a couple of days ago. And last night during a late night  telephone conversation on the no 7 bus after a splendid concert at the Wigmore Hall  I asked him whether we couldn't go back and do some more work in Djenné instead of trying to expand our work in the increasingly impossible Timbuktu, he said YES! let's do it!  I had shown them some beautiful manuscript which have accumulated in Djenné in the last year and a half after the British Library projects finally came to an end. They have been brought in by local families and are by far superior to the scrappy bits of manuscritps which were presented to us in Timbuktu. So he agreed, and I will b going back to my beloved Mali to set up yet another project in Djenné maybe even in a couple of weeks! There is much more to say about this, but prefer not to for reasons of diplomacy and security...

Good News from Mali

An eventful couple of weeks are nearing their end- flying back from Bamako on Monday, to see out the last hours  of this decade in London. I am spending the last days with my American friend Karen and we are doing great long hikes in the hills surrounding Bamako with her dogs almost every morning, so close to Bamako, but yet  so far away from the pollution and bustle of the capital.

The  trip to Timbuktu offered adventures as usual, but those were more caused by tedious UN administration troubles than with any Jihadist threats, and we shall happily consign them to oblivion.

Here is Father Columba and I at the airport, leaving Timbuktu just over a week ago. I got out of our little prop plane at Mopti, where Ishmael waited in the old Merc to whisk me off to Djenne  while Columba  and the rest of our team continued on  to Bamako. 

                                                                                   

When we arried at the bac (ferry) at Sanouna by the Bani crossing I was unwise enough to take pictures of the FAMA (Forces Armées MAliennes) jeep that was boarding the ferry. The commander jumped out and strode up to me in an authoritarian manner, asking for my documents. I gave him my passport but that did not satisfy him for then he asked for my ‘Ordre de Mission’, a paper explaining the reason for my business in Djenne. I gave him the paper that had been prepared for Timbuktu, but  he snarled that the permission  to travel to Timbuktu did not say anything about Djenné. Somewhat put out I explained that I had never needed any justification for travelling to Djenne before. At this point three people appeared from various directions on the little ferry, and were all ready to defend me. The driver of a vehicle belonging to the Djenné hospital, a  small Fulani whom I did not recognize came up and said  ‘mais c’est Madame Keita ! La femme du feu Barou Keita, notre laborantin !’ The commandant, whose name was also by a happy coincidence  Keita, seemed to be encouraged by this and softened visibly. He still wanted to if I knew anyone with authority  in Djenné whom he could call to check my credentials. ‘Sure, I said. You can call the Prefect, the Imam or the Maire, take your pick’. He chose Dra, the deputy Maire and the manager of the Campement Hotel, who was playing Pelotte in Djenné with some of Keita’s other friends, who all noisily vouched for me.    

                                                    

I stayed at the Campement in Djenné  for two nights, mainly to visit the Djenné Manuscript Library since my other business in Djenné has now been put to sleep, both hotel and textile business. It was Djenné that provided the most important and interesting insight in my Malian trip this time : people were positive and optimistic about the future and about the security situation. My usual question ‘what is it like here now ?’ received a reply I had not expected. Everyone I spoke to told me that since the signing of the peace accord everything was fine and calm had returned to the area around Djenné. ‘What peace accord ?’ I asked, and to my great surprise I was told that the Prime Minister Boubou Cissé, in the company of no less than five other ministers, had witnessed the signing of a peace accord between the Dozo hunter militia and the representatives of the Jihadist Macina group in the Mahaman Santara Hall next to the Djenné Mairie on the 7th of August. The peace accord covered the Circle of Djenne, and had been negociated by traditional village leaders, and sanctioned by Amadou Koufa, the founder of the Macina group himself.  The peace has held.

I looked it up on Malijet, and found that indeed it was true, and it had been reported in the Republicain newspaper at the time:

https://malijet.com/a_la_une_du_mali/231365-centre_mali_accord_cessez_feu_signe_milice_.html

But nobody knows about it. It has been total radio silence concerning this great news item- all we ever hear about are massacres and deteriorating security situation in central Mali. Even the MINUSMA people themselves seem to be unaware of it, and when I spoke to a military advisor to the UN that I met at a party on Christmas Day in Bamako he was not aware of it ! and yet it is true and I saw it with my own eyes. The peace accord does not concern the Dogon country, which seems to be steadily deteriorating, but Djenné is fine ! Why doesn’t anyone want to report this ? Hurrah Hurrah  I say !

I took the local bus back to Bamako from Djenné. Here I am at the Carrefour de Djenné with the old sign...

Bologna, St. Lucia; Election and then to Mali!

 If Bologna had belonged to any other country than Italy it would have been given top billing- as it happens it nestles somewhere further down the list in the shadow of Venice, Florence, Rome and a few others too maybe... but it is a beautiful city, well worth a visit with gorgeous little streets panning out from the grand Piazza Maggiore (with the statue  of Neptune and his rather saucy handmaidens, above) redolent with culinary delights in the form of cosy trattorias,  green grocers;  fish mongers and cheese and truffle shops...

 

 Maybe it is because Bologna cannot boast a really great local art tradition on the level of Florence or Venice that the city has  become relegated to the 'second division'?
There is at least one great exception to this rule though, and that is one of the most important sculptures in Italy, the truly exquisite Lamentation by Niccolò dell'Arca from the late fifteenth century in the church of Santa Maria Della Vita:

The slightly lower status of Bologna  in the hierarchy of Italian cities brings the advantage  that it is not so inundated with tourists as some other destinations. It might also be a reason why the Bolognese  concentrated on developing what they are really good at: food...
I enjoyed the generous hospitality of new friends Patty Simmons (see blog post October 20) and her husband Les, who have a lovely flat directly overlooking the Piazza Maggiore and who introduced me to a cavalcade of their great friends this last weekend.

And now back in London for a few days only before leaving for Mali on Friday early morning- just enough time to throw myself into some more Lib Dem canvassing before Thursday's Great Crunch Time General Election- arguable the most important one for a generation...

Oh yes! And then there was St Lucia last night too (a little early)

   at the beautiful  Swedish embassy Residence with its perfect Adam-designed interior last night :

                                                                                                                                                    

On the Meaning of Trembling...

Manuscript no No 4647 from Imam Essayouti Library, Timbuktu.

It is probably from the 19th century and copied by a certain Muḥammad al-Amīn Ibn Fūdiu bn Muḥammad who might be a descendant of the famous  Ousmān Dan Fūdiu who founded the Sokoto Caliphate in  Nigeria)

Maktūbfī-l-Ikhtilājwa-l-Ayyām: Convulsion

مكتوب في الاختلاج والأيّام

A manuscript of 10 pages  describes the meaning of various forms of bodily trembling. For instance:

trembling of hair= fortune will arrive

trembling of right eyelid= a meeting with a stranger will occur

trembling of left eyelid= people are talking about you

trembling of right side of nose= illness is coming

trembling of left side of nose=your wishes will be fulfilled.

in addition the manuscript claims that the first of every month is a propitious day because God created Adam on the first day of the month, and the second is also good because then He created Eve. The third, on the other hand, is not so good, because then He chased them both out of Paradise...

All sorts..

First of all more bad news from Mali where ISIS claimed the massacre of 30 Malian soldiers last week in the Region of Gao close to the border of Niger. This is a picture of their burial at Gao.

And yesterday a helicopter crashed in the northern region, killing 13 French soldiers on their way to lend support to ground troops engaged in anti-terrorist fighting. It appears that this crash was an accident. The French Barkhane troops are separate from the large number of UN troops stationed in Mali, and actively engage in fighting the extremists. There are about 4500 of them deployed over the Sahel in Mauritania, Mali, Burkina Faso and the Niger. Many believe that the region would be in the hands of ISIS without their support.

 I am leaving for Mali again in December- and will travel to both Timbuktu and Djenne as usual. But there is no doubt that the situation seems to be deteriorating. How long will I be able to go to Djenne? Now I will be on the local bus on my return to Bamako, and that is really more uncomfortable than dangerous, but no doubt all my Bamako friends will once more try and dissuade me...

Meanwhile I have been  getting involved with various London activities I have never had any contact with before. One of these is Politics, in the last couple of weeks before this all-important election on the 12th December. I am out canvassing and leaflet delivering for the Liberal Democrats, which I think is  the only sensible party to join if you are a 'remain' person like me. I have even become a paid up member! Some of my friends - they are all 'remainers'- tell me I must vote tactically and that a vote for the Lib Dems is a wasted vote and will only help to keep the Tories in power. I understand the rationale of course, but I belong to what is called a marginal constituency, Kensington, and there is a very good chance that our Lib Dem candidate Sam Gyimah will actually get in. The constituency is full of traditional Tory voters, but on the other hand those Tories  are predominately  'remainers' and many will be turning their back on Johnson's Conservatives whose rabid Brexit policies are  unpalatable to most here.  And to make matters even more interesting, the current MP for Kensington is Emma Dent Coad, a Labour MP for the first time in this constituency. She was voted in with the tiniest majority in 2017 to the great amazement of all. But this time the race could well be between Lib Dems and Tories here at least, according to the polls...

And below here is 'Tarzan', the venerable Lord Heseltine, a Remain Tory for whom I have always  had a soft spot...

He got on the podium and told people to vote Lib Dem today!

                                                                              

And onto more frivolous matters... but still just as new a territory for me as my flirtation with politics. Below you see me left, wearing my Swedish costume from Leksand in central Sweden, together with three ladies at the Swedish Church in Marylebone, London. We are helping out at the Swedish Christmas market,  a very popular event for the large Swedish community here. I have never even been at the Swedish Church before and never taken part in anything my countrymen do here. But the lady to my right, Gisela, is a dear friend who cajoled me into coming along... And I guess my friendship with my dear ambassador Eva  has also somehow made me return to the fold- she has taken it upon herself to reawaken my slumbering swedishness and it seems to have worked. I bought a whole lot of Swedish delicacies at the food stalls and gave my lunch guests Janssons Frestelse last Sunday- a yummy potato, onion and ansjovis gratin, which is accompanied with schnapps and drinking songs...

thinking of writing about the hotel perhaps...

I had a hotel in Africa, in the mud city of Djenne by the Bani, a tributary to the Niger, the life blood of Mali.

When I think of that time now, sitting in my Notting Hill flat with the November rains battering my window panes those days have taken on something fantastical, it is as if it never really happened. Yet it did. This entity called Hotel Djenne Djenno came together out of nothing, it existed for twelve years and then it ceased to exist. And within that time and within those mudwalls which encircled the hotel a whole new world was born. From within that little world it is possible to extract a million stories if one is only able to choose the right combinations. It is the storyteller’s job to choose those combinations, and I know I must now try. I owe it to this ‘thing’ which was my hotel and to all those that worked with me and I owe it just to the fact that it actually worked!

My hotel is like a friend or a beloved that has passed away. It is virtually impossible to conceive that they are gone. How could something so real and tangible be just gone? Where did it go? Does it exist somewhere in another world? Is there some sort of heaven for hotels or places? Maybe it exists as long as someone still remembers it?
The last days when the mattresses and the ceiling fans and the chairs from the bar were being removed, piled up on the donkey carts and disappearing down the dirt track the hotel was in its death throes, it was like seing the last breaths of someone beloved, almost like sitting by my Keita’s bed as he left me... but I am getting ahead of myself. Where was I ? Should I start at the beginning?