Well, well

Well, well.

An extraordinary thing happened today. I was pulling up a half filled bucket of water from the well at the studio, and Madou, the guardian of the Atelier I am staying at, bless him, decided to show me how to tip the bucket at the bottom, to get more water (this I already know having drawn water in his absence many, many times!) I gave him the rope and he jerked it, yes the bucket tipped more, and took more water, but with that weight extra he let the rope slip out of his hands and down it fell to the bottom. No rope to pull up the bucket any more.

Now that well is deep, and dark, perhaps 25 feet deep. He looked surprised that I didn’t have the rope in my hand. Hmmm.

Scratching heads time. I started looking at the longest poles in the garden next door. Could I rig up a hook on the end with wire? Nope. Madou shouted to his cousin Yubah who just happened to be watering his garden, to come and help. As he approached, Madou explained and it became very clear that he was going to climb down. I tried talking them out of it, in my moderate to awful French. “The water at the bottom was deep, yes?”. “Yes”. I admitted I was afraid. What if he was to drown at the bottom, would we ever be able to forgive ourselves. “Oh its OK, Yubah is strong, he will do it“. However much I tried to persuade  them not to send him down, I couldn’t win, so I grabbed my camera and all I could do was hope that he would be OK.

Madou, Téy and I watched him climb in and lower himself in to the ‘pitch dark, narrow concrete tube that forms the walls of the well. Somehow he found foot and hand holds and being a strong lad, he got down in next to no time. I have to say I definitely don’t recommend doing this EVER.

I can hardly believe he did it. I was both petrified and fascinated, clicking away. At the bottom he answered to my feeble ca va? Oui. He held himself above the water and fished about for the rope, once caught, emptied the bucket, placed it between his teeth and commenced climbing up again steadily. I could hardly breath, I was so terrified that he’d fall or never get out again. Then there he was, head about to pop up over the brim of the well, smiling. What a relief!

Life is so full

Here in Mali, a normal day doesn’t exist for me, every single one is different, bringing new experiences, new challenges, new ideas. One day may involve many, many layers of actions, of meeting, of senses being used.After a day like that you’re either exhausted or you’re so full, it can be a blur.

Mali has an abundance of things to write about, that’s for sure. As an outside observer it was and is possible, but as I get closer and closer to this country and its lovely, but complex people, there is less room for objectivity. This particular trip has given me a battering of senses and emotions, far more than before, and its taken me a while to unravel it all. I hope you enjoy what I unravel.

Timbuktu

Going to Timbuktu, one of the worlds most famous destinations, is one of the longest, yet most rewarding journeys to make at least once in your life. You can take the slow boat and arrive as tranquil as the beautiful river passage itself. Or go by car. If you travel by road, like i did, from Bamako, it is two long days of driving. Hours and hours of hot jostling and bouncing in 4×4’s at speed, across sandy tracks avoiding families of sleeping donkeys, stray camels, and kamikaze goats. Pretty exhausting, exciting stuff. East of Mopti, as you get closer to Timbuktu, wearing a scarf wrapped around your head and face in true Malian style is essential, to avoid breathing in the fine dust that gets everywhere, even inside the cars.

You can feel you’re hardy when you’ve survived all that, and lived to tell the tale, but the roads are actually safer this side of Mali, ie, east of Mopti there is less traffic and no crazy buses trying to drive each other off the roads. The governments of the world would have you think otherwise – more on that later.

This is my third visit to Timbuktu, an ancient oasis, a town of trading and learning and spirituality. Situated in the edge of the Sahara, the worlds biggest desert, on the trans Saharan trade route. It’s situation, just ten miles from the River Niger gave it an advantage and easy access to river craft which carried the heavy gold from the South and salt that was brought here by camel from the North. The salt trade still exists. Mined in Taoudenni (16-19 days away by camel) and Arouane, (8-9 days) great tablets of salt are lashed onto the sides of camels which are ridden and walked in caravans, (groups), often by night when its so much cooler. Temperatures plummet at sundown here, from searing heat to freezing cold. The desert is extreme.

The Tuareg caravan chefs (leaders) know the land by heart, can detect the changes in texture of sand under the camels foot, can read the landscape like a well loved face. The stars are used to navigate and the moon as a lamp. Not everyone uses camels to get around here, though,  4×4’s are more and more common in the Timbuktu region, mostly Toyota’s.

Once having 15 Islamic schools, a population of 100,000 people, and attracting 20,000 students and scholars from West, North Africa and the Middle East, Timbuktu’s heyday was between 1490-1591 when it was ruled by Mohamed Askia. The Islamic University here was flourishing while Cambridge and Oxford was still in its nappies, so to speak. Timbuktu started to slip into decline in 1591 when the Morrocans took over, but it is still today a town of learning, a town of libraries containing thousands of ancient manuscripts, which are being lovingly copied and restored.

On the face of it, Timbuktu appears a hot dusty place, with a mixture of stone and mud plastered buildings, like the one above, which unusually, has hand prints all over it. Deeply rutted dusty tracks, with the usual Malian debris (plastic bags) wind between the high walls which border the streets. People here dress just as colourfully as elsewhere in Mali, although turbans are more obvious and definitely needed against the sun, dust and wind. Tourists are soon wrapped up in them too.

Scratching beneath this towns façade and spending time here helps you to feel its history and soul.

As usual, the town is not a town with out its people. Friendly, open, honest. Crime doesn’t seem to exist, and trust does. We westerners are always a little guarded, especially around our belongings, but here, things rarely go astray.

I’m staying in Timbuktu at the head office of Timbuktucien, Aly Dicko, who runs one of the best Malian tour companies, Mali Mystery Expeditions. http://www.malimystereexpeditions.com

Through the support of international partners, he runs his own hotel, Houndé Mali, which means, Mali Soul.  (www.houndemali.com)

I’ve travelled here pre Festival as guest of From Here 2 Timbuktu, a tour company run by a rather unusual Englishman Guy Lankester, who partners with Aly to organise his tours. I can see why. Aly has a great capacity for organising, is so calm, considerate and confident and is so well connected here that one feels anything is possible. I’ve never felt in safer hands and safety here is the topic of the moment.

Many tourists have stayed away from both Mali and the Festival this year because of the potential threat of a terrorist attack/kidnap. At the opening celebration of the Festival, the Minister for Tourism said thank you to the foreigners who have been brave enough to come; brave enough not to listen to their governments.

To walk on the streets of Timbuktu says it all. Smiles, inquisitive looks, greetings from women in doorways, from the groups of men huddled around the tiny braziers brewing pots of sweet green tea and children wanting to shake hands. Kidnap here feels like an extremely remote possibility, like Timbuktu itself. I urge you to visit. * Note added Spring 2012. The situation in Timbuktu has radically altered for the worse and is completely unsafe. You should not go for the time being,

The Festival

A gathering of souls from around the world some of whom come to listen to World Music, some come to meet cultures different from their own. Some come to trade, some come to find a wife.

On my first evening I’m offered 50 camels for my hand in marriage. I turn him down, saying sorry I’ve had a better offer- 200 camels. He is visibly shocked!

Then I’m nearly run down by some Tuaregs posing on their camels. If they had been paid for every picture taken by the westerners, they would be rich.

The wandering traders are selling hard, and its a bit overwhelming at times dealing with them and the heat, as they tend to walk with you until you convince them you really are not interested, which can take a while.

Young boys try to befriend you and then when you think that’s all they wanted, they lay a small cloth on the ground and get out some trinkets to sell.

Genuine friendships are made too, in the most surprising places.

Send A Book to Mali progresses too

A midday break on day two of the Festival with Aly, and driving back into town on the 2 kilometer desert sand track to fetch provisions for the two encampments he’s responsible for and a chance to meet the mayor Aziza Kattara, with Aly stepping in to interpret for me. Aly had re-met Aziza on the plane just days before, so as soon as I mention my book project to him, he considered her the first port of call. We arrive at the Mairie, and she listens to my idea of bringing old, loved (recycled) children’s books to Timbuktu next year. She is interested. We agree to continue to correspond.

She has a project too, she wishes to tell me about, and so I will tell you too. She is creating an Orphanage for the destitute street children of Timbuktu, many of whom are Bela, the poor relations of the Tuareg. She aims to house, feed and educate these extremely poor children and is looking for people internationally who will ‘parent’ these children remotely.  I will post more information when i have it. Aziza has been to Hay on Wye, England. If you haven’t already noticed in my blog, Timbuktu is twinned with the amazing town of books. Oddly I kept bumping into people both young and old who had been to Hay on Wye.

The desert and the Tuaregs

The Festival offers interactions with Tuareg culture and at the moment because the Northern desert is ‘off limits’ to westerners, its one of the only ways to do this. Tuareg music has a healthy dominance here. Our evening are spent joyfully dancing with the many Tuaregs who have come. We are surounded by turbaned men, many of who hide all but their eyes, and women wearing beautiful sparkling shawls over their heads, herding children, who gaze open mouthed at us westerners dancing and smile when we smile back. The music of the Tuareg is lyrical, repetitive and sometimes mournful.

The way to dance to it seems to reflect the slow and graceful movement of the camel, or perhaps the hand waiving performed by men and women describes the undulating sea of sand dunes. Often scarves are waved – the ends are tipped gently into the air. Beautiful.

Tuareg bands, mostly male instrumentalists, and women singers and percussionists, are all seated in an open semi circle on the stage,  in front of which leap fabulous Tuareg Griots, who on their heads, wear wonderful crowns of turquoise and red leather tied around their bronzy indigoed turbans and big billowy Boubous with baggy arab pants beneath. They jump barefoot gracefully from crouching position on the floor of the stage and seem to stay for seconds in the air.

Big name Malian musicians too feature on the programme. Oumou Sangare, Bassekou Kouyaté, Amy Sacko, Habib Koité, Vieux Farke Touré, and local girl, Kaira Harby shortly off on her second American tour in 6 months.

The Tuareg sellers have a big presence here at the Festival. Many have travelled by camel and set up encampements on the site. Guys “Family” from the northern Desert have brought extra tents for us to sleep in and have furnished them with beautiful cushions and other leather ornaments. During the day they leave out silver jewellery, leather covered boxes and knives in the hope that we tourists will buy them.

On day two of the festival our group’s Australian couple have a re avowal of their love for each other. The encampment’s Tuareg Family are involved in drumming, sing

ing, dancing, and bringing in Griots (praise singers/storytellers) and to

generally make an amazing event.

The couple have had clothes specially made in Mopti for themselves and their attendants. All look lovely. We all put our best clothes on too. Flocks of people arrive to wish them well, then Camels arrive and carry them off for a spin around the site. When they are returned both Guy and Aly have major roles to play in the giving away. The couple make vows to each other and are permitted to kiss. Us more sensitive creatures are moved and a small, but tearful group hug is needed.

Then the Australian woman is led off by the Tuareg Women and installed in a tent, until the men can negotiate a reasonable price for her. I watch the women guarding the tent, smoking their tabs of tobacco neat through short metal pipes. Their dark sun-lined skin is permanently tinted with the indigo used to dye the brilliantly reflective bronze blue clothes that they wear. Their bodies slighter, and smaller; more Arabic looking, with higher cheek bones and paler skin, then is often seen in Mali.

A cheeky young boy lifts up the edge of the tent with a stick to peep at the Western woman who is reclining inside and probably wondering what’s going on. The boy and is chased off noisily by the women. Eventually, after a price has been agreed, our friend is reunited with the wedding party.

New Mexico

New Mexico.

What an amazing array of people and cultures there are here, and not always happily sharing the land – there is a bloody history of conquest, domination and revolt. A relatively young state, which uses the slogan, ‘Land of Enchantment’, must be extremely ironic to those who are clearly disenchanted.  Todays New Mexico is a mixture of  Indigenous Americans, Hispanics and Anglos, who arrived here in that order.  I have been both meeting people and looking at architecture from those three cultures. Hispanic villages in the mountains, Indian villages – or Pueblos, both ancient and modern, and the recent, highly fashionable (and very expensive) adobe architecture of Santa Fe. I have hardly seen a common kiln fired house brick for weeks.

Santa Fe city does not allow any new building to be made in materials other than adobe, and they have to be no more that two stories high. This means that the views across town, are completely remarkable compared to most other towns or cities in the US – there are no high rise buildings here at all. This delightful city is human scale, the centre is walkable (very unusual again), the building materials are locally sourced and soft warm terracotta earth walls are everywhere.

I’ve been staying in a very beautiful adobe house owned by Emaho Montoya, a truly generous man of Tewa Indian and Hispanic descent. Based on the traditional circular shape of the Kiva, this house has open spaces and rooms leading from a circular mezzanine above  an open circular well below, which similarly leads to a network of surrounding rooms. The massive pine tree trunk beams that support the ceiling create a solid feel and sturdy structure.  The mud walls are very thick and substantial, creating cool interiors even when the sun blazes outside.

Heading north from Santa Fe, on route 285/84, you are quickly within the Indian Reservations and Pueblos. Here imposing Casino after Casino erupts from beside the road.  These have been build by the Indian Councils to attract money into the Reservations, where there is generally evidence of widespread poverty. Not everyone is poor here, there are exceptions, when for instance  someone has a steady job, perhaps at Los Alamos Research Lab, a short distance away. During my visit to one of the countries top native american sculptors, Nora Noranjo Morse, in Santa Clara Pueblo, she talked about the problems facing her people. The lack of opportunity, the lack of money, the lack of connection with the old ways for the majority of the population. Nora is working hard to re instill a sense of connection to the earth by working with young people on creative gardening projects within her community. The practical side to this is also young people are learning to grow their own food, learning which herbs are medicinal and have been used for centuries here. It would be wrong of me to ignore the sense of injustice that these Indigenous Americans must feel when comparing their lifestyles to those of the Anglo’s generally. Nora is a busy woman, she makes clay sculptures and maquettes of larger cast pieces. She has been working hard on a film which has developed from a commission she won, to make sculptures outside the National Museum of the American Indian, in Washington. The sculptures she  designed used natural materials and building methods – a project in which she collaborated with Bill and Athena Steen (her niece). http://www.nmai.si.edu/alwaysbecoming/AlwaysBecoming.html

The Hispanic villages that i have visited have  included Chimayo, to see the adobe church where the earth is sacred – no literally. Built on a native amercan site where the soils were reputed to have healing properties, people come form all over  the USA to rub themselves with the sacred soil and they sometimes feel better. Rather liek at Lourdes, in France. Visitors can take away a handful if they scoop it from a pit themselves. I did. I plan to incorporate it into a piece of art in the future.

So to another hispanic settlement, Abiqui, which contains one of the homes of Georgia O’Keefe. Off route 84, this village is being carefully kept away from too many tourists, by the O’Keefe Foundation. We were encouraged to rendezvous at the roadside  Abiqui Inn, two miles from the village and were shuttled in for a whistle-stop tour. At $30 per tour, it allows a very limited view of the house and studio, this must also keep people away. It must also make us wonder whether it was worth the $30!

The house itself was a solid old Spanish villa, set in several acres of land, still gardened by the same family who worked for O’Keefe. The house had been restored sympathetically by O’Keefe, with her friend overseeing the work. As we were not allowed to take any photos of the house what so ever, so i cannot show you much of it. I went back to the village after the tour had ended, to get a feel of the village and take photos of it.

Georgia O’Keefe’s Abiqiui residence from the village gate.

What really strikes me looking at this architecture, is the similarity to that of West African buildings.  There is a solidity and grandeur. A relationship with the land on which it sits, almost as if it has grown organically from the soil.

Djénné in Mali and Santa Fe, New Mexico  – which is which?

 

Hitting the road

Getting into and driving an Automatic car for the first time in my life was the early afternoons challenge. There was much kangarooing and raised eyebrows as i backed out of the parking space.  However i cracked it and within quarter of an hour we were speeding (moderately)  round the parking lot and daring to hit the Highway.

Driving up route 101 and seeing all the different landscapes rolling past, reading the names and the advert signs, Im amazed by the size and scale of everything out here. The US has really got used to wanting for nothing. Monster super-long pick up trucks, whizz by. Im in a modest Mazda 3. Im very happy about that number three…. my lucky number.

Was drawn to Pisco beach and walked a while and though Iwasnt really looking, I found two heart shaped stones within 15 mins. The first I noticed even though only the pointy bit was visible. I just knew.

Stayed at a motel inland (half the price of the coastal ones) in St Luis Opisbo. I hit my first example of US car centic-ness. The motel, along with all the other cheap chains, was situated one side of the 101 and the only way back to the main town  as  far as i could work out, was across route 101. No pedestrians were allowed, so  with no choice but to drive,  i thought, forget it!  Next door to the motels was a little Creole cookhouse called Bon Temps. So i had my first ever taste of Creole cuisine. I now know that Collards (boiled Greens) are nothing to write home about, however pone bread is delicious!

There was a wonderful Gipsy Jazz band playing there called  Red Skunk Gypsy Jazz Band, which made me very happy.

Driving through Steinbeck Country was an experience of smells, colours and long low hills each side of the vast wide  Salinas valley. We passed through a town named Castroville, which proclaimed itself  “Artichoke capital of the world”!

In San Francisco, im delighted by the local architecture, very clapboard, (weatherboard)  cubist and colourful. The Castro and Haight areas of San Francisco really are picturesque. Colour in a thousand ways.  Colourful people, painted house, murals everywhere. There is a giant rainbow flag flying from hugely tall flag pole which is visible for miles from the heart of Castro. It signals a message of freedom, of the ability to express oneself any way one chooses. The ‘vibe’ is essentially good.

Marlies, my US/Dutch co explorer arranged for a welcome supper at her friends house on Diamond Heights, one of the many steep hills in San Fran. All of the friends who came were working with the environment in some way, either through art, science, or sustainable energy.  They had many helpful ideas for our trip including who to contact and what to see. One of the guys, Matt, turned out to be a past US Venice Biennale participant, and the Director of  Rebar. He lectures on art and ecology too. (Rebar is a collaborative group of creators, designers and activists based in San Francisco. Rebar’s work ranges broadly in scale, scope and context, and therefore belies discrete categorization. It is, at minimum, situated in the domains of environmental installation, urbanism and absurdity)

Matt and his partner Sasha, arrived with a big cookie version of Spiral Jetty. (Robert Smithson’s giant land art sculpture in Utah) It was both hilarious and delicious too.

Several of the friends were going to the legendary Burning Man Festival  in early September. Its something thats been on and then off the itinerary, as it need careful thought and planning. Staying in scorching heat of  The Black Rock Desert isn’t something you do unprepared.

I had felt quite wiped out by the drive earlier, but was energised by the company. Im going to see if we can get together with one or two of them again and do an interview for the website.

The next adventure begins….

I did a BBC Radio interview yesterday morning live. Was interviewed by Ian Perry, who’d just come back from his holidays. We talked about my USA road trip which starts today, my work, this blog and my website. If i can get hold of the recording, I’ll post it on here.

The journey has started very well. I found myself bumped upto business class, so had a glass of champagne to take off. How very nice!

One of the questions the BBC producer had written for Ian to ask me was, is it appropriate for an environmental artist like me to be doing a road trip?

My answer is yes. The purpose of my trip is to go see and bring back what ive seen and learnt, to better teach and inspire more people. I’m involved in teaching eco building and sculptural art to people in Britain, having learnt techniques in Africa and the UK over the years. I plan to share what i learn from the States with the community back in the  United Kingdom primarily, but am intending to run eco encounters internationally in the future.

So, in the States, I’m going to be researching eco building methods, and im particularly looking for pioneers to learn from. I will be visiting eco architectural sites, meeting and interviewing eco artists, soaking up the landscapes that have influenced major artists like James Turrell, Georgia O’Keefe and Frank Lloyd Wright.

I’ll  be spending time with artists and even a Shaman from the Pueblo Indian Tribe – peoples who still live close to the earth.

I’ll be walking in the footsteps of environmental artists and making work in situ out in the states too. When im in the cities i’ll be checking out the local artists scenes and the major art galleries too.

I have some fixed points on my journey, – some people to meet up with along the way, some sights id like to see, but have left my itinerary pretty open too, so as to allow spontaneity and whimsy.

As i sit here writing, waiting for my connection to LA in Calgary, Canada, i’m incredibly excited to have been given this opportunity. I plan to use it well.

Recycled Book sculptures – to Mali with love

My work has developed into other ways too…..

Since creating the recycled book sculpture ‘Drink Deep’, shown at my first solo show, Meetings in the Middle of Somewhere, I now appeal for, collect, sculpt with, and then arrange the transportation of the undamaged books to people who need them in Africa.

So since returning back to the UK, I’ve collected over 1000 English paperback books and made temporary sculptures with them. Next, I will drive the books to Mali and there I will make a centre piece for my solo show at Gallerie Maison Carpe Diem in mid December. After this, they will be moved to the Festival Sur le Niger, be transformed into another sculpture, and then finally, once dismantled, they will be donated to the very impoverished public library in Ségou, the second city of Mali.

Why to Mali?

Over the past eighteen months, since i first visited the country, Mali has given me inspiration, love and a motivation to think wider about humans and our interconnectedness. It feels appropriate to give something back.

Mali is a gentle, safe country full of smiles and positivity and the most incredibly beautiful music on earth. All this is despite the poverty and the climate change felt as encroaching desertification, which threatens livelihoods and food production in the country.

Why English books?

Mali is one of the poorest countries in Africa. Learning to communicate in our shrinking world is seen as essential. Although French is widely spoken, there is a little basic English taught at school.  Those who have learnt some English get little or no access to any resources to continue to improve their language learning. Its rare to see English written, and rarer to hear it spoken. This is start.

A drawing by Beverley Fry of me and my Book Hive made live with public help and participation at Wenlock Poetry Festival 2010

Next year im planning to take English books to Timbuktu.

There are ways in which you can help me do this. Someone very kind could lend me a van, or could pay for some fuel.

Someone very kind could order books from African publishers who employ Africans writing in English.

If you are that very kind person, please contact me. Id love to work with you.

After Djenne

Seydou and I caught a bush taxi out of Djenne towards the end of the Market day. The taxi system here works on a wait till its full basis, for departure, and not on a timetable. As we bought tickets 2 and 3, there was time to explore the market, which had completely changed the town. The most noticeable change was that Djenne became entirely filled with people. People selling, people buying, tourists, many tourists. Stalls with western clothes, traditional clothes, hardware; torches,  baskets, mats, woven dish covers. vegetables, cooking pots, sieves, auto and bicycle parts, smoked fish, dried fish, fish oil, cereals; millet sorghum, rice, fonio, beans, peanuts, kola nuts, shea butter. The stalls laid out everywhere in a complex entangled network of paths. Somewhere underneath the chaos, there was a plan. I searched for masons baskets (in which the masons mud is transported) to bring home, and was told many times to go to a pretty exact location. They had sold out, as it’s the season for repairs right now. At last we found a shop which had a few, 400 CFA each. After a cooling down soft drink at the corner shop, and still half the bus tickets to be sold, I decided to find, if possible someone making Bozomana (Fishing tribe-plastic) jewellery from recycled plastic.  We asked around and took directions into the Labyrinth that are the back streets here. Seydou knows this town well, so at no point were we lost. We asked at a house, and the women there were happy to demonstrate their new art. Charcoal was found, to put in the fourneau (little barbeque type fire) and lit. Baskets of plastic string of different colours arrived. Old plastic shoes, recycled and made in Mali, were sliced and skewered, to melt over the fire; another metal skewer working the plastic. When the plastic was flexible enough the woman created a long even thread and laid it on the ground. She took some of the thread, with a few other colours too, and on a warmed wire, twisted it to cover it entirely, melted both ends so it was fixed, then gradually she fed and twisted the whole length over the fire, to just the right temperature. Once it had cooled, she cut off the ends, measured some bangle lengths, and chopped it with a bare razor blade. On a hot knife, she melted the ends together. I asked her how where had learned to do this; she replied, a woman from Mopti came to show me. Each bracelet or necklace she makes and sell, helps to support her family.
The bus left around 4.30pm. Seydou had arranged for an extra 500 CFAs for us to sit in the front, so we tall ones wouldn’t be too cramped. The diesel bus made its way slowly and bumpily from town to town and we made it eventually in the dark to Sevaré for the night. One step closer to Pays Dogon (Dogon Country); our destination.