Bamako unrest and Fez

           

                             

Bamako has been shaken by three days of murderous uprisings. The former head of the Haute Conseil Islamic, the powerful Wahabist leaning Imam Dicko is widely accused of orchestrating the anti government demonstrations which aims to topple IBK- some say in order for himself  to try and grab power.  The entire country has been put on alert and even  in Timbuktu this morning the banks were closed. 

My Air France ticket has been booked for my long overdue return to Mali on the first of September-  who knows whether this will happen.

Everything now seems unstable in so many ways. It feels as if the very earth we stand on is  moving somehow, criss-crossed by fault lines of diverse origins- epidemics and other disasters pulling in different directions and threatening to make everything crumble...

Not perhaps the time to start dreaming and planning a risky new venture... but the other day some mysterious impulse made me look up properties for sale in Morocco and I landed immediately on this 18th century Riad in Fez with a roof terrace with 360 degree views over the medina and an outside space for a little garden and swimmingpool...

 

 

 

It needs complete refurbishment, but what a project! 6 bedrooms and 6 bathrooms! Thickly encrusted  with original glorious tiles and wood fret work! And I have a friend in Fez already, Gigi a vet who works in an American 'horse hospital' and knows all expats and has all necessary contacts of 'doing things up' in the medina. 

I was wondering why I have been learning Arabic- I thought that it was mainly in order to give Youssouf in Timbuktu some extra cash - and of course since I am involved in Arabic manuscripts it can be viewed as 'staff development'... but maybe there was another reason for it? Some sort of divine guidance with an ulterior motive? 

Hmmm.... what shall I call it? Riad Djenne? Riad Keita perhaps? 

I think I might just be serious about this...London life is just not quite enough. Let's see...

And there are enormous deposits of ancient Arabic manuscripts in Morocco of course, which my Benedictine friend and boss Father Columba would most certainly be interested in,  at least I should imagine so...

Summer delights

 Can there be anything lovelier than floating slowly down the Cam in a punt?  with a basketful of strawberries and bubbly ready to go... and the sun intermittently obliging..

Wormwood and Canal

 The lockdown in the last three months has produced a city of explorers and walkers- since we have been  allowed to go out once a day for exercise many of us has exaggerated and have stretched that allowance into great hikes of exploration around the parks of London and along its canals.  I know many who have walked for three or four hours a day- and discovered a London that they never knew existed although they might have lived here all their lives.  And friendships have been struck- like my new Welsh friend David who I found on a park bench by the canal in Little Venice the other day.  He showed me Wormwood Scrubs yesterday- it is only up the road from Ladbroke Grove- it is huge and wild- actually a nature reserve rather than a park. Although I vaguely knew it was there I guess I was always put off by the name- and by the fact that its eponymous Prison looms gloomily in one corner on its parameter.
But meanwhile the vast central fields are bordered by woods and soft meadows and there are large varieties of wild flowers, grasses and lovely thistles which attract butterflies and insects buzzing about making it feel like deepest Devon...

One can reach  this new haven by walking the canal route from Ladbroke Grove

 I seem to spend half my life by the canal these days, on my way eastwards normally but this time the route leads west towards 'The Scrubs'. Plenty to look at on the way always- like this bird (must get myself some sort of a bird book: any suggestions?) with his elaborate boots!

Djenne, Timbuktu and London.

 It is Saturday, which means that I have once again had my time honoured little weekly meeting 'at' the Djenne Manuscript Library with Babou Toure, left above and Garba Yaro, right, the archivist.  They are seen here on the roof of the library during the recent crepissage, the yearly mud plastering. The mosque is visible in the distance.
 For many years this Saturday meeting happened in 'real life' and I used to get on my little Yamaha motorcycle and travel the short distance from the hotel to the library to meet up with them and discuss matters arising. Since March we are of course once more up and running, this time with HMML, the Minnesota Benedictines rather than the British Library, so our weekly meeting has kicked off again.
 I speak with the whole staff on WhatsApp one by one: Babou walks around so that I feel as if I am there with them.  I say 'I NI SOGOMA' -good morning- to Moktar the guardian in the courtyard. It is really almost like being at home!
After a difficult couple of years to begin with in 2009 and 10, we now trust and respect each other and we are the best of friends. They know that I am 'on their side', and that I will do all I can to promote the library and find them funding etc.

That cannot be said about the Timbuktu project unfortunately... Without going into details that could harm the ongoing project, it is undoubtedly true that Timbuktu's attitude to  our project is very different, and probably due to the fact that Timbuktu is so much more famous than Djenne, and is used to being granted money and projects, whereas Djenne is more or less forgotten, and I should guess that our current  library project there is one of the only externally funded projects  that is currently up and running in the town.

Part of the Timbuktu team is seen sitting here outside the Essayouti Library, hoping to be let in last week, after a two week break. The library had closed down since one of the staff had tested positive for Corona virus and the Essayouti family had sadly lost a couple of family members to the disease.

 The town has fared comparatively badly from the Corona epidemic, but according to Youssouf, a staff member and my on-line Arabic teacher, the situation is beginning to improve. In Djenne too, Babou tells me that it seems to have abated, and there have been no recent deaths- anyone with symptoms can go to the Djenne hospital to be tested. The tests are sent to Bamako and then the result is know within a couple of days. So there seems to be some reason for cautions optimism.

My flight to Mali which was booked for July has been cancelled and I have changed it for the beginning of September, on the first available Air France flight.

And here in London I have finally written the draft of the memoir... it is called 'Out of Mali', of course in homage to Karen Blixen...
I do not have much hope for its eventual publication unfortunately. Even if it were considered good enough, it is the wrong climate at the moment- no one wants to read about a white woman's experiences in Africa. Someone in the publishing world told me to rewrite it from Keita's point of view- that is not going to be possible and to me it would seem the height of fake. But Pelle, my cousin, came up with an interesting suggestion- maybe I could give a voice to the people who worked at the hotel?What did they think if it all? What are their memories? At the moment it is only my memoir. But it could be expanded perhaps? I am going out in September inchallah- I could speak to them all- Boubakar the gardener, Baba the waiter, Mamane the barman, Papa the chef- what do they have to say? And then it would not just be the thoughts of this white woman...?

Love in the Time of Cholera

 Well, after several weeks of cloudless skies and soaring temperatures, after balmy walks through the fragrant rose gardens of Regents Park and sun soaked sojourns on the park benches of Holland Park; on the very night that our online ZOOM book club had finally reached the climactic, glorious end of our novel and were set for a long awaited get together in real life for a picnic in Kensington Gardens, what happens?

The sky is grey and rain trickles down for the first time in months. Wintry winds howl.  Three intrepid enthusiasts, Lucy, Ralf and I nevertheless meet up at the appointed time and take shelter in a little wooden hut where we read the lovely last passages as Fermina Daza and Florentino Ariza sail up the Magdalena River under the Yellow Plague flag in an ecstatic  spirit of love and  abandon...

On to new reading matter and more sunshine next week I hope....