WEEK 8

17 -26 nov. 2007

Nature is a temple where living columns let slip from time to time uncertain words; Man finds his way through forests of symbols which regard him with familiar gazes.
Charles Baudelaire (1821 – 1867), The Flowers of Evil.

It’s Monday, just after lunch, and the fresh wind fills the immobility of the hot afternoon with the scent of the sand, and brings the memories of the Ocean to our quiet rest.
I smell that air that strokes my neck and my hair from the silence of the teachers’ room. I can close my eyes and let these gentle waves wash my thoughts, and my head with the same pleasure that I attribute to a fish when transported by the currents of the sea without opposing any resistance. The day is hot, but the shade is fresh and beautiful. I can see few students passing time under the big tree, without moving or talking, only enjoying the breeze.
My nerves, instead, hardly rest, but work constantly under my skin to register and to make any little perception rise to my conscience.

picture 1. a cobra has just been killed by some brave students.

As for a bleeding wound that can only be anaesthetized but not healed, my sensitiveness can be calmed by distraction (imagination, many times, is a trick that the nerves create as a protection against pain); sometimes, however, my nervous system reaches a peak of such over-excitement, that it has to relieve the stress suddenly and without warning: in those welcomed moments my heart becomes finally free, and I am open to receive, as if naked, the love that I had in vain desired so intensely, and which impossibility to gain for a long time produces, at last, a quiet resignation. I don’t desire anymore, freed from the slavery of Time (what should I do next?), and I listen in silence to what is around me; I understand life, without pretending to understand, let the time flow and enjoy every second that passes through me. I can fully appreciate the vision of Otilia slowly cooking funge, with a precision that is driven by her instinctual sense of duty: not a bit of energy is wasted in preparing food, every single act is natural and seems to flow from an age longed tradition, singing some motives with no attention, her eyes tired from the work but focused on her colleagues and vigilant, as those of a lioness who rests under a tree after having milked her cubs, and lets them play on her, but ready to protect them from any threat.
picture 2. the village of Buraco.

These visions (that I could call revelations, since beauty reveals as a religious truth, previously secret) come to me quite frequently, not only here in Africa, even though every change in my life – new people, a new place to live, or even a little occurrence such a particular light of the day, or a smell, or the memory of them when it suddenly reaches the surface of my consciousness, recalled by similar ones – opens my senses to be impressed; but I always have the feeling that they chase me, wanting to say something, to tell me a truth that I had kept somewhere in my mind; and I can only understand that I’m running after myself, and that everywhere is one place: few days ago, I brought some students to a village by the sea for a school trip. It’s quite far from the school, and we had to walk several kilometers to reach it; we passed through the lagoon and then we crossed the vast land of Africa. I felt like an explorer when walking with a fellowship of 10 excited people (who couldn’t believe they escaped a boring day of studies) through the high grass, a backpack with food and water, under the burning sun of the early morning, from which some palm trees offer a good repair and an excuse for a short rest. When we reached the path to the village, I stopped many times to enjoy the colours of the sea weed that covers the sand: the washed green alternated by round spots – scattered on the ground as following a mysterious patchwork created to please the Sun – of yellow, red and purple. But the vision of the far imbondeiro trees that rise on the top of gentle hills of green reminded me the big olive farms of Greece, or of Southern Italy, and for a moment, again, I was there, wondering what had I left of myself in the beauty of those sunny lands, when, as a child, I ran after my parents or my older friends in some lost summer vacations. Perhaps we only see what is already ours, in particular what recalls our forgotten (and sometimes unsolved) past. If so, this is why I can still find myself on the surface of a whitewash wall, that quietly cries the warm sadness of the afternoon sun; or in the shade of a tool room, which damp perfume of wood is everywhere the same: insignificant places that bring a magical meaning to me, and still ask me to wait, to be part of their truth that, unfortunately, I can only perceive but not understand.
The village is called Buraco, and the long walk was rewarded by a very good hospitality offered by its inhabitants – mostly fishermen: I promised to myself to go fishing with them, once, if possible –, and by their availability to answer our questions (the school trip had the purpose of investigating the life of a village of the surroundings). We asked about their lifestyle, habits, traditions, and their knowledge about diseases: this area, as many in Angola, is afflicted by cholera, a disease that comes together with rubbish; Angola is full with it; the massive presence of rubbish is the sign, wherever it is, of the invasion of the modern world – consumerism – into a traditional or primitive world. The idea of “respect for the Nature” belongs to the rich societies which have already tamed it and have the privilege of considering it a “friend”, while for an ancient or primitive society Nature is still an enemy to fight. The wealthy countries first introduce, with the typical blind aggressiveness of Capitalism, a constant and massive quantity of goods in the “developing” countries (all have to develop), then teach how to respect Nature; all resulting in a complete destruction of the delicate balances and rules of the old villages. Another disease that, I believe, affects this area, is HIV: many people had heard about it, but only a blood analysis can find out the presence of a virus which symptoms are not easily identified and often confused with the ones of commoner diseases.

picture 3. mama is talking...

Together with the presence of many social taboos, this is the reason why it is always difficult to draw the percentage of its spread. We also had the honour of being received by the daughter of the Soba, the chief of the village: an old woman (sadly I couldn’t see many elderly people since I arrived here), with a respected social status, who answered to our questions with the smiling face of a person that has passed a very hard life and is very keen to satisfy the naive curiosity of a group of boy-scouts. Naturally, I couldn’t take my eyes away from her, impressed by the calmness of her majesty, and I couldn’t say anything for the first part of the interview; but I managed to conclude it (only because asked. Too nervous, otherwise) by expressing our gratitude and my personal appreciation. …Obrigado, mama’. Big smile. De nada.

picture 4. ...and we take notes.

We completed our task by buying some fish to vary the school’s menu and to please the other teachers (in particular professor Lucas, with whom I’m starting to have a troubled relationship), who weren’t so glad to let the students go.
Anyway, first the duty, then the pleasure: a long refreshing bath into the Ocean (this time very calm) waved the end of a beautiful day.

WEEK 7

7-16 nov. 2007

The ant’s a centaur in his dragon world.
Pull down thy vanity, it is not man
Made courage, or made order, or made grace,
Pull down thy vanity, I say pull down […]
How mean thy hates
Fostered in falsity,
Pull down thy vanity.
Ezra Pound (1885-1972), Cantos (LXXXI).

Sometimes the rain drops are tiny, so tiny that fall as slowly as snow.
It happened only twice. Twice, in the early morning. Both times the air was made of white mist. Nothing moved. The lagoon, the buildings, were suspending somewhere, and smiling, like Sunday mornings. The trees were standing still, respecting the silence. Rare.

picture 1. a tropical tree. i think i've already seen one like this; in the gardens of Kew, in london, or maybe in copenhagen. or... Ah, sweet memories!

Prepare for the Holy Mass. What a warm fog, I can hide. Smooth, no anxiety today; there’s no school. mam and dad are with you all day. The bell, we go now. When I’ll grow older, I will be strong and happy. After the Mass, lunch all together.
Nothing much to say, this week. After the exams I restarted my English lessons, where I try – apart from teaching grammar, that I realized it’s not very suitable for the students, or I am boring – to create debates, to involve them to speak, to express an opinion (someone – I don’t remember who: how I miss my books! – said: “you only think when you are talking”). This week we have talked about politics, and we managed to spend two hours efficiently discussing about the Government of Angola, which is accused of corruption by many.

picture 2. with its wisdom, our big and old imbondeiro tree protects us from the dangers.

By the way: I was very surprised when, walking back home from the village of Ramiro last Friday together with Marcus, one of the guards of the school, I passed the whole time (it takes 40 minutes to walk one way from or to Ramiro: 4 km in 40 minutes; it means 6 km per hour, that’s my average speed on foot. When you travel alone, in the absence of Sudoku, your brain finds many small games to kill time) listening to his opinion about a golpe which seemed likely to happen in Luanda, and which should be led by a General who has already gathered his own army, ready to take over the corrupted regime of the President Dos Santos. Marcus didn’t show any particular fear or even worry while describing this dangerous threat: perhaps such an occurrence here is considered quite normal, especially by one who has already experienced the war; perhaps he knows that, whatever happens in the (palazzo di governo), very little is going to change in his life. I’m sure he is right. Bah. My passport is still in the Angolan Ministry of Foreign Affairs, waiting for the Visa extension. We will see.

picture 2. finishing to build a cell for the internet connection (still to come)

The debates, here at the school, are easy to start and to last very long. Angolan people, students, teachers, workers, enjoy talking – especially about the Government; and often take part in passionate speeches to praise or to blame that party, that opinion, that way of living. Hours and hours spent to complain about the situation in this Country. Most of the students, although lacking in basic education, have great speaking abilities, thanks to this developed custom. But when it comes to do, only few seem to be interested. It’s the same with the teachers. I listen to their excited discussions at lunch and dinner, and right after they go to take a nap. It’s as if they satisfy their own sense of duty by speaking. Doing doesn’t belong to them. It wouldn’t be a surprise to me, since I have seen this attitude in Italy many times, and honestly I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that, in general; those are the cultural differences I am thirsty of. But I suspect that – if, as it should be, a Government is an expression of its people – the same happens at the highest levels of the State; I imagine a burning session at the Parliament, where politicians express their proud remarks about the good of Angola, and still the real power is in the hands of few foreign oil companies.
Chega.

The heat never leaves us alone. The midday Sun is harsh, burns our heads, the roofs, the dry soil, and the rare flowers that grow around the buildings try to keep their delicate white, purple and yellow out of its violence by shutting their petals during the hottest parts of the day – a system that works, since their colours are incredibly vivid in the aridity of the whole. Sometimes the ground is so filled with heat that it has to give it back upwards, and it seems that there is another Sun pulsating in the underground hollows of the Earth.

picture 4. the main (sic!) street of benfica.

But a cloudy day can be unbearable, because of the humidity. This is why, probably, the rains are welcomed only in the early mornings or in the evenings. In the daylight, they only add the invisible steam of evaporation to the heat, making it more infernal than the burning sun.

WEEK 6

29 Oct. - 6 Nov. 2007

Some dreams. The oral exams.

Everywhere is nowhere. When a person spends all his time in foreign travel, he ends by having many acquaintances, but no friends.

Lucius Annaeus Seneca (4 BC - 65 AD), Moral Letters to Lucilium.

The rains of the coastal side of Angola are, as it was natural to expect, typically Atlantic. Sometimes they wake me up during the night, asking me to wait. Choosing the perfect time to knock at my room, they start to come just before the dawn, so I am not in the complete dark (but the dawn still allows my dreams to wander), and I don’t have the regret for not getting up to watch the sunrise. I don’t waste time: I pull my red cover up to my chin, turn aside and listen for some minutes to this warm waterfall of notes which, brought by the gloomy clouds of the Ocean, but now pouring from everywhere – from the air, from the soil, from under my bed, like a maternal cure of love – stroke my ears, my forehead, washing and isolating the walls outside, and gently cast me to that far, furious sea, where I float safely together with the whole room; I sail among the dark waves from the inside of my little boat, where I have at my hand a number of drawers filled with anything I need (food, drinks, books, screens, binoculars and navigation instruments); enjoying this new adventure as the main character and only spectator, I discover islands, watch the passage of submarine creatures from the window, and let the waves cradle me until I fall asleep again, as a cat resting on the owner’s lap while outside the living room a winter storm rages.

picture 1. hidden among the bush, the swallow observatory ("casa dos passaros") offers a wonderful shelter by the sea.

The day before yesterday, instead, the rain came in the evening, just before dinner. I was sitting in the teacher’s room, waiting for the sino (the bell that announces every meal or activity is made of an old iron wheel hanging from a tree. Very typical). I’m not a good talker, but I’m a good listener of my imagination, and the dim yellow light of the bulb, the pale white walls and the wooden ceiling of the room, together with the complete silence and chillness of the air (as to prepare to the storm), were already suggesting a new dream; when the rain started to pour I couldn’t help being transported into the coast of Normandy, where I found myself sitting inside a humid inn of a port (was it Cherbourg?); a cup of brown coffee; a creaking entrance door; silent fishermen waiting for their meals, their eyes towards the sea outside; the young waitress (la Marie du port) at the bar serving ales and pernod. I stayed there only for few moments, the time of a lost image revealing, and when I opened my eyes I smiled warmly, comforted at the sight of prof. Augusto and prof. D.P. in the room, in the same position they had before. I wanted to hug them, to express my gratitude for being my fathers, for protecting me during that moment of peace.

picture 2. cooking spaghetti.

A Poet once said: I met a kid, he was sitting before a World map and, pointing a finger to a place with his eyes closed, stated: “Now I’m here”, and then, pointing to another place: “Now I’m here”, and so on. Some years later he grew adult, stupid, and really wanted to travel.
The wisdom of this vision of life impressed me, when I was younger (and many times justified my idleness). And I still let the stream of my imagination flow in a boring or a bad moment; but also I believe in the beauty of Memory, which can fully function only if it’s fed with real experiences.
Therefore I think that visiting the World is always worthy. At least for a future remembrance.

The oral session of the exams, here at the school, has just ended, and I have learnt and seen much: first of all, I improved my Portuguese and my general knowledge (how many things I have learnt about History, and in particular History of Africa these days!) by being everyday at the teachers’ desk, listening to the students’ defesas (presentations) and asking them questions (that’s what I need to do – everyday!); secondly, I felt useful, respected and appreciated for the care and accuracy that I put in my interventions and explanations. I must say that a wave of pride filled me when I talked with passion about Nelson Mandela and his powerful message of forgiveness to the students, sitting beside prof. Eduardo: for the first time I have felt the joy of being different, I, a white European telling to students and teachers of Africa the importance of a black man that fought against racial discrimination; insisting, trying to make them understand. A very strange kind of spiritual satisfaction, something I would call a taste of Enlightenment, most welcomed. I’m proud of you, Alessandro.When you will be able to leave vanity behind, perhaps you will be happy. Yes father.

picture 3. three girls presenting their work at the exams.

By attending the exams, I have also learnt something about elegance. And my idea is: as wisdom is the acceptance of one’s own personality, elegance is the capacity of recognizing one’s own most suitable dress. I have seen, this week, girls transformed into jewels of Persian beauty, unaware of their charm, wearing the traditional trajes with modesty; an expression of their own culture that made them shine as precious stones of all colours of Nature. How sad is to see the same girls everyday lift the thumb, or walk arrogantly, imitating a malice that doesn’t belong to them, when only one day before I fell in love with the purity of their smiles!

In Italy a primary school teacher made his fortune by publishing the essays of his pupils, showing how poetic and incredibly funny kids can be. “My” students are grown-ups, but their creativity seems to be still flourishing, if, during the exams, asked about the economy of Japan, Maria Fineza candidly answered that cars and porn movies are its main products; or, when asked about the differences between Catholic and Protestant dogmas, Madalena (by chance, daughter of a Protestant pastor) ended up talking about the menstrual cycle of the Virgin Mary.

picture 4. the teachers listen carefully to the students' presentations.

That’s it. We have to learn from everything.
I’m looking forward to being enlightened again.