“L’unica resistenza vera in Italia e’ fare bene le cose”
Enzo Biagi
Little present for Olga – Four years around the world
[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Zo11WLT1cQ&hl=en&fs=1]
one week in Dar es Salaam a picture video with music suggested by Max Box
[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DiLEDlZ6EZc]
One week in Dar es Salaam
A picture video with music suggested by Max Box
Singapore 6:59am
Landed one hour ago from Johannesburg. The trip started in Dar es Salaam at 7:25 am local time. From Tanzania to Singapore is like a time journey. From the dark streets of Dar to the lights of Singapore. From the Dar airport to Singapore world’s hub.
This was my first trip to Sub Sahara Africa and I have to get my thoughts together. I saw just a tiny tiny part of it, though I did compare it all the time with the Asia I know: Cambodia and Vietnam. It is a way to put in perspective what I saw during the week in Dar. Travelling and living abroad is good for the spirit, but the longer you do that the more you lose that kind of childish and worried excitement that I felt the first time I step out of the sliding doors of an airport in the developing world, in New Delhi.
Dar. Africa. At this early time of the day I see snapshots of Dar, people, dala dala (minibuses and vans). Like a slide presentation set on random access to the picture stored in my brain. The familiar music in the busses. The handicraft seller at the Mogweni bus stop calling me rafiki (friend) and bargaining hard to keep the price of the gift I bought high. Her loud laughing when I suggested my price. The incredible colours of the fabric of the tailors’ shops. The large paved roads and the dusty alleys like in Phnom Penh. The large campus of the University of D’Salaam where I worked with a group of economists. What I learned about the transition of Tanzania from state controlled economy and today’s market orientation. The struggle to move up on the development ladder. The three young men I crossed on way to the bus stop. Their red towels-blankets. Their long hairs and their distinctive features that made them so different from the people of the town. In my limited knowledge I thought they were masai. Dr. Rutasitara the team leader of the economic research project we are supporting. His smile and articulated description on how the project is progressing and its challenges. His office at the university, the office and the position of head of the department that is taking a lot of time from his main interest: research on international trade. The hundreds of Ma and PhD theses piled in the small room. The thousands of exam paper to be reviewed. The smile of Francis, the driver who picked me up at the airport when I arrived and told him he was the first person I met in my first trip to Tanzania and Sub-Sahara Africa. The sunsets. Blue sky and stretched soft clouds at the horizon. Its uniqueness as unique were the sunset in Kampong Thom on the green rice fields during monsoon season. The openness of the people and the minimum one hour contagious delays for meetings. And more…
Hakuna matata
Into the loop
I have given up after three unsuccesfull attempts ot open a bank account at a NatWest branch down the road from the office of ODI where I work here in London. On Wednesday I give it a try with HSBC near the Parliament and Westminster. HSBC is called ‘ global bank’, meaning they have subsidiaries all over the world, they deal with customers from many countries, and I had heard that they provide the possibility to open a passport account. So I went, quite optimistic.
I met a nice lady who explained me everything. In order to open a bank account I need an address and a proof of address. The proof of address comes only from a BT bill, council tax, gas bill, electricity bill. I said that in order to get these bills, I need to fill a form which in all cases asks a bank account. The HSBC lady, answered: ‘yes, I know.’
So tried a different approach: what about a passport account? Can I open one? She answered, ’you need a passport and a proof of address?’ I said, ‘how?’ She answered. in passport or for example driving licence. I took them and showed that these documents do not show addresses: the passport is issues by the German Embassy in Phnom Penh (kind of suspicious), and the driving licence only mention the municipality where it was issued: Jyväskylä – Finland (difficult to pronounce, even more suspicious). She looked at them and said they would not do and said: ‘You cannot open a passport account’. She also started to smile. Me too, I must admit.
I tried a third approach. ‘Isn’t this the’ global bank’?’. ‘Yes’, she said. ‘ So what f I open an account to your HSBC branch in Ha Noi where I will be next week and then come back to you to transfer the account here?’ ‘That’s not possible, you would still need a proof of address here in London. You could only withdraw money from the wall.’ You seem to be in a loop’, she finally said with a smile, capturing in 7 nice words how I felt in that moment.
Lost words, words found
I recently found, in the bookshelves of friends’ house, a book I had forgotten. I actually thought it was in my old room in Italy. I found it in Switzerland. It travelled, now I remember, from Italy, to Spain, to Germany, to Switzerland and it is now with me here in London.
The book title, in Italian, is ‘La Donna di Porto Pym’. The author is Antonio Tabucchi. A writer I used to love a lot, in the same way one loves writers who are linked to a specific part of our life, a journey, an encounter, memories.
I have not been reading books of him for several years now, but I have the impressions and feelings that his books gave me fifteen years ago. Blurred memories where the stories he narrates are mixed with past events.
Tabucchi is also the author of ‘Notturno Indiano’, ‘Indian Nocturne’, a short book that had a great influence on me. Printed on nice yellowish paper. Almost squared size. With a rough paper as it they had not finished the work of making it smooth for the print. Nice to feel on the finger tips. It was recommended by a German friend living in Munich. A book we exchange as a present among few friends for Christmas and birthdays and who gave to two if us (Gennaro and me) the idea of plan our first trip outside Europe to India. We were 23 years old and together with three more friends we bought our rucksacks and set for the great trip. We bought India’s Lonely Planet guide, which at that time was available only in English language and from selected bookshops in Milan. The same guide, the main character of ‘Indian Nocturne’, flips through in the cab along Marine Drive in Bombay, upon his arrival to India. We were characters of a story (our stories) and travellers. I felt partly in the book and partly on a great adventure.
I could not say it then, but can now: that journey and discovery with all its difficulties, its inexperience, its moments on the roof of a night bus from Kathmandu down to the Indian border in Sunauli, changed me and contributed to the fact that I am now here in London, writing these words, on this laptop, thinking about going back to Katja and the girls to Ha Noi in two weeks time.
I open the first page of ‘La Donna di porto Pym’. Strange how this books has reminded me of the other, ‘Indian Nocturne’. I open the fist page. On the top-right corner a date: 30.12.87. It’s my mother handwriting and it’s her birthday. I cannot recall if it was me who went to the bookshop to buy it as a present or whether it was her who went to buy it for herself. I imagine a old foggy day in my hometown. I flip thorough the short stories and see the one where a man describes in great detail for three pages a famous Van Gogh painting in a museum to a friend, and only in the last couple of lines we discover that this fiend is actually blind. Then another short story: ‘Persone Felici’ (‘Happy People’). The young researcher and the literature professor. They are sitting at the terrace of a small restaurant looking over the ocean (I imagine Portugal). She is young, he is much older. The evening is mild. The ocean moves slowly along its currents and waves. The line of the horizon hidden by a thin haze. The sun already below it, but still spreading his fading light to the sky. The white table cloth, the typical appetizers: black olives, goat cheese, white bread. A glass of white wine for him, just water for her. They do not seem to talk much. They look at the ocean. They do not seem too happy. She is accompanying him for a conference. They talk only few words. Then she tells him she is pregnant. The tension has gone. Words are flown away by the wind and there are only their eyes looking at each other to tell how happy they are.
Pictures on the wall
I am sitting in one of the most beautiful flats I have ever been. I look out of the window behind this laptop screen: the cool wind of this ‘blueskysunnydaywinds’, the branches of a small tree moving softly, the green field where hay is waiting to be cut and stored for the winter time, the large trees of the forest one km from here (much larger pine trees than in Finland), the valley of Lausanne and far away, almost as giving the last brush of color to this painting, the lake of Geneva.
The flat is derived in an old restored farm house. Has wooden floor and ceiling, space, light, and a nice home atmosphere. This is a home. Our friends Britta and Iker have made it their home. In a way I feel it a bit like my home. It is because of the place, the colors, the time, mood and the my and ours memories on the walls. Britta (I think) has put many pictures on the wall of the friends yearly gatherings we used to have until some years ago before Katja and I started to live in Asia. They then became more sporadic. I walked around the flat, looked at the picture on the kitchen wall: the new year we spent in the Finnish mökki, the summer we met near Tampere, their visit to Cambodia. In the living room great pictures of mountaineering excursion which B&I are very fond of. Then pictures of their son Emil. Another where Olga and Venla are also in. Pictures before and after having children. The life then and today seem to linked to each other. A natural and logical sequence of life events and moments that bring the past into the present and do not make the past to distant.
I am reading this book of Ryszard Kapuscinski, Travel with Erodotus. At one point noting how Erodotus in his journeys had to rely so much on his memory to write his travel stories, Kapuscinski realized that memories bring the past into the present and make it real once again. Whether this is transferred also to the reader and how it is another matter. Surfing the pictures on these walls I have in away travelled in time. Been back into the Finnish winter of some years ago, the early afternoon sunsets, the clear air, the warm under the jumper and cross-country ski jacket and the ice cold cheeks, the warm dining room of the cottage, the sauna, the laughing and talking.
And not only memories of us friends together, but also memories of living in Finland, of Olga touching for the first time the snow, the first time we slid down the hill on a sledge, and so on.
We all live in different countries, have our lives and live our days in our own way. But it is really a kind of magic moment meeting again after many months if not years and on the basis of those common memories talk together about our present lives, our doubts, our dreams, our plans and our children. I am really glad I came here.
Ming Yort Norng
We enter the pagoda compound with the car and stop in front of the sala (or dining hall). It is typical Khmer wooden building on stilts. I step out of the car and see Madame Yort Norng standing at the entrance of the sala at the top of the short but steep stairs that lead to the entrance. She see me great me with the typical smile that can be found only in the rural areas of Cambodia. I also call her name: ‘Yort Norng, sok sabbai’ She comes down the stairs and despite her sixty years of age and the problem in her right leg, she almost run to me. She takes my hand with both her hands and I can feel the hard skin typical of people use to farm and manual work.
We last saw in 2005, just before leaving from Kampong Thom. I used to work a lot in this district of the province. Many meetings in pagodas with members of cash and rice association trying to help improving the management of their association and the links with Commune Councils. I remember the first time I saw her in the meeting of the pagoda committee in Stoung. She did not speak much. She seemed to me shyer than the other six committee members. However with time things got better. My Khmer improved and I was able to have small talks. She became more self confident. After some time I learned that she was a widow. Working as farmer. Being the village chief in Preah Damrei, and leader of a cash and a rice association comprising a total of fifty families. I visited her in her simple house. I remember one of the walls of the stilt house being of palm leaves, while the other three in wood. I notices how well kept was the house. I remember visiting her in the district hospital in Stoung when she was attending to her son who had fallen from a tree and had broken the two wrists. . She stayed at the hospital for about a week since the relatives are the one who have to prepare the food for the patient. Her son had had an operation. I remember the bandages around the wrists that had not been changed for days. The bed without mattress and a chicken emerging from under the bed at some point. Yort Norng was there and took care of him.
She has now been elected in the Commune Council. She is still very active with the pagoda associations and has established one saving group for the poor of the village. She is really bringing something new to the Commune and for Cambodia: the awareness of the vital importance for a greater link between civil society and local government.
At the end of the meeting I tell my Khmer colleagues from Phnom Penh that Yort Norng was once received by the King Norodom Sihanouk together with the other six pagoda association members to receive 5000 USD as his personal contribution to the work of the associations in Stoung. The young colleagues are very impressed and ask more about it.
We leave. It was short meeting but with warm memories and feelings. She thanks for all I did in the past in this district. I tell her that all I know about rural Cambodia and its social capital I owe it to her and the other pagoda association members. She smiles and takes again my hands: ‘Arnaldo, sok sabbai’.
The little child in Pursat
In never left a meeting with villagers with tears in my eyes. But today it happened. I am in the province of Pursat, on the west side of the Tonle Sap lake. In the afternoon I went with two other members of the team to a pagoda at 30 km from the national road to Phnom Penh. We thought he meeting was for ten to twelve people. We arrived in the pagoda ten minutes early. We entered the sala, the wooden meeting room built on stills typical of Cambodian pagodas. The statue of a sitting Buddha at the end of the room decorated with plastic flowers, candles, and incense sticks brought by devotees. The colorful pieces of fabric decorating the ceiling along metal lines. Suddenly a young monk start to bang the big drum which is normally used to call for emergencies or important meetings. After 15 minutes we had 60 villages: men, women, elderly people, children, babies. We are the foreigners who cam with the four wheel drive car from Phnom Penh. A group of young men dressed only with a kromah around their waists arrives first. They sit on the floor looking at us. Then they stand us and get from a nearby room some straw mats on which to make me sit, as we are the guests. More people arrive. The translator sits next to me, but it is clear that given the number of people coming he will need to be a facilitator. But I know he can do that.
More people arrive. They are all very poor. The pagoda is very poor as well. No large bodhi trees, no shaded places, just few simple wooden house as accommodations for the monks, the very simple main temple and the sala where we sit. The fields around the pagoda compound are all dry and duty.
Sixty people staring at am. Waiting of the questions. I look at my paper sheet to the first question, a question now I do not want to ask anymore: what the main problem in your village? A question which seems utterly inadequate. It is so evident that they all need basics such as water, food, opportunities. They need to improve their livelihood.
The meeting is starting in one minutes and I notice a small child a couple of meters on my side, sitting on the floor in front of the first raw of people. He is naked. After a couple of seconds I realise that he does not have the two harms. I need to start to talk, but my eyes are getting wet.
I start. I speak. The translator has not noticed the child yet. I cannot avoid to look at the tiny child who must be two or three years old, sitting there naked. Without harms. On of the young men dressed just with the kromah who arrived earlier on, takes him on the lap. He must be the father. I look at the one hundred and twenty eyes looking at me while asking my questions and waiting for the translation. God, these people are poor.
The meeting is not long, just twenty minutes. A thunder and black clouds announce the rain. I want people to get home before the rain starts. The meeting is over. Clapping of hands.
I need to go and give a caress to the child. Some candies appear to be distributed to the people. The little child gets one of those jelly sweets. He tries to open it with his feet, but can’t. I open the cover for him. People gather around us. He tries to squeeze the plastic cone with his feet. I try to help him by bringing the jelly sweet to his mouth. The people around us say that he can do it himself. But it is too hard. So I help him again. He first tastes it to see if it is good. He has a running nose and dark eyes. They tell me his name is Diph or something like that. He is two years old. He still tries to eat with the feel to his mouth. I help him to finish. Give him a caress and stand up to leave. The father looks at me and in that Khmer way with hands in front of his chest moved up and down asks me to help him and then point at his son.
They all need help. Some more than other. They did not participate in the decision of being part of this project. But the simple fact of coming here and ask questions rises expectation that we would help with their most basic and urgent needs. We are here to ask them if they participate in local governance while what they are asking are wells and food. What expectations do we rise what hope do we carry with us? Are we aware of the disillusionment we can cause by not addressing their most urgent needs and demands? We did not speak a word for the first twenty minutes on the car back to Pursat.
One often reads that blogs are for the most part just personal diaries that do not carry any relevant message. Well, I wanted to tell about that little child. And hope somebody will read and think about him.