|| África, qual África? |||

Para este post uso um texto que escrevi após a primeira viagem ao Senegal e que tem nesta altura dois mais de dois anos.

e também por contacto entre os assuntos, um vídeo de uma intervençao numa conferência de Chimamanda Adichie, uma escritora nigeriana, intervenção que ela chamou, "the danger of the single story".

e ainda um outro vídeo: Ngonzi Okonjo-Ijeala, antiga ministra das Finanças da Nigéria, e agora directora de Banco Mundial, sobre o negativismo das imagens sobre África.

Não estão em causa os diferentes enraízamentos institucionais destes três recursos, mas o conteúdo, sobre a imagem que se faz sobre África



1. 1. - Representações ou Jogos de Espelhos -



África. Não a conheço para além do que oiço nos jornais e do Senegal onde me envolvi por uns meses. Conheço pouco portanto. Conheço mais os filmes que vi, os artigos que li, e os véus destapados sobre algum enquadramento histórico aqui e ali. Não conheço, no entanto, uma África de mitificações selvagens sobre a riqueza da fauna e o exotismo dos povos. Não sei o que siginificam as imagens dos conflitos e as teorias das conspirações a não ser que se tratam de uma espécie de novela dos media ocidentais. Do interesse académico que vai mais ou menos legitimando a superioridade ideológica sobre os “diferentes” também não me resta muito. A África que conheço tem problemas e soluções de curto prazo e dificilmente tem capacidade para sustentar uma visão de futuro. É África de inspiração mandingue e herdeira do Império do Mandé (Mali), e de muitos outros reinos1 que habitaram o desconhecido Sahel onde os poços facilmente se exaurem sob o sol imperdoável. É terra de homens bem vestidos de boubou e de casas hospitaleiras e terra de mesquitas e de forte identidade muçulmana. Pululam os Cheikh pelos nomes e pelas paredes, os Amadous e os Mohammed2. Gente gentil de África. Qual África? África das cidades tumultuosas e de ventos quentes do deserto, África Ocidental. Pedaço de África. África, qual África? Pedaço de África. Pedaços de uma de muitas mantas de retalhos por esse mundo fora. Uma zona. Que integridade tem a ideia de uma África una? Repetidamente, o termo «África» remete as pessoas para um imaginário de guerra e meninos de barriga inchada, de atrocidades selváticas. Perguntam: “África, muita pobreza, não?”. Que devo eu responder a isso. Muita pobreza? Claro! Mas e se eu disser que na maior parte do tempo que lá passei nem me lembrei dessa imagem do sofrimento. É claro que analisando objectivamente todos esses sinais estão de factos presentes mas nunca as pessoas deixam de ser o que são, wolof, peul, tukulor, bambara, djola, serere. Misturam-se por ali e encontram-se de certeza juntos nas tentativas de travessia para a Europa e cá chegam e se separam. Isto não é um desdito de questões pertinentes que também se vão colocando sobre o assunto mas um esforço para colocar os pontos nos iii’s para mim mesmo, de saber se sou daqueles viajantes encantados pela terra de sonhos exóticos. Acho que não. A África que eu sinto é uma África familiar, de laços fortes e de partilha. Mas isto serve também para colocar os meus pontos nos iii’s nessa conversa de que África, é um continente, onde há pobreza, as pessoas sofrem, os políticos são corruptos, África dos impérios coloniais, áfrica invadida pelo turismo e pelo investimento estrangeiro explorador. Mais uma vez desse imaginário criado apenas sai reforçado o negativismo contemporâneo dos media ocidentais e do senso comum. A África para onde lançamos a nossa pena, para não termos pena de nós mesmos. África? Não conheço África. Só posso ter fé no que vi num pedaço de África. Quantas vezes tem de se repetir o termo «África» para este prender a atenção? Uma parte infíma, o país dos Alhamdoulilah e das confrarias muçulmanas, terra de pó e baobabs, de oficinas, mouttons e marabouts. África da reverência aos antigos e respeito pelos que já viveram os anos mais agitados das suas vidas. África das mães e da poligamia. África da malária e da seca. A minha pena de nada serve. Não tenho pena. Ma ngi fi rek. Estou só aqui. Essa imagem dos problemas de África serve mais para esconder o cinismo com que o Ocidente a vê. E o cinismo é muito fortemente característica de ocidental. Um africano talvez se prestasse mais a uma esperança utópica ou um desespero absoluto. O cinismo está sempre longe das coisas, a vê-las à distância de rabo sentado em poltronas.

Mas o que significa isso de dizer que pouco se sabe de algo que toda a gente parece fazer uma ideia? África lusofonia. África ultramar. África retornados. África diamantes. África petróleo. África ouro. África marfim. África escravatura. África imigração clandestina. África seca. África Rwanda. África Darfur. África ditadores. África corrupção. África sub-desenvolvimento. Jogos de palavras e ícones do profundo alheamento entre realidades.


África das versões contraditórias das mesmas histórias. Como os dois filmes que vi sobre um povo Fulbe3, de índoles diferentes, e com versões contraditórias que dizem mais sobre quem faz os filmes do que sobre o povo em questão. Tratam-se ambos de filmes sobre o povo Woodabé, o povo de homens que em média tem dois metros de altura, e que se reúne anualmente durante uma fase de lua num “festival”, o Gerewall. Nesse encontro homens e mulheres experimentam os caprichos do aprumo e a liberdade sexual entre pessoas é grande. Mulheres e homens escolhem e rejeitam parceiros e abandonam as danças para se irem esconder no mato com o parceiro. A escolha de parceiros é complicada dizem-nos ambos os filmes e obedece a toda uma ritualização, sendo baseada em critérios de beleza muito elaborados. Os homens, de caras pintadas em cores vivas, esboçam caretas para mostrar o branco dos olhos, a forma do nariz, a boca e os dentes, literalmente pavoneiam-se. As mulheres procuram a todo o custo esconder o interesse emergente neste ou naquele homem. Quando esse interesse é finalmente revelado ambos abandonam juntos o terreiro onde o resto continua a dançar, por vezes três dias seguidos. Ora, até aqui ambos os filmes parecem ter formatado a realidade de uma forma que até que se pode ajustar. Um dos filmes é do realizador alemão, Werner Herzog, e outro é um documentário-reportagem televisivo actual. O último exibe uma espécie de deleite pelos contornos tão peculiares do encontro dos Woodabe e segue dois jovens desde a sua aldeia até ao Gerewal. O foco é no excesso, na excessiva apreciação da beleza, na elaboração das pinturas, nas caretas icónicas, nas aproximações das mulheres e na importância atribuída por este povo a este encontro anual. A avaliar por este filme os Woodabe vivem relativamente isolados e a sua situação geográfica relativa a outros povos e eventos mal terá afectado os sentidos do tal encontro de acordo com estes dois filmes. O primeiro deles contradirá essa assumpção. Werner Herzog mostra-nos também o Gerewal mas por cima do barulho da azáfama dos corpos em movimento sobrepõe uma música clássica que nos reenvia para uma estetização do assunto em questão. Os Woodabe são chamados a participar numa certa reflexão sobre as expressões artísticas da humanidade. Mas ao lado desses mesmos Woodabe do Gerewal aparecem-nos nesse filme os Woodabe apanhados pela seca, obrigados a deslocarem-se para as cidades onde se tornaram alcoólicos e encaixaram na malha urbana de casas de aparência provisória que se tornam definitivas. Até os símbolos de riqueza, os calebasse decorados com simbólicos padrões, perdem o seu valor. Os homens tornaram-se alcoólicos e não têm, em geral, trabalho. É uma visão catastrófica das agruras da seca e de alguns conflitos locais, uma visão catastrófica sobre a condição humana. Em contraste com o filme de Ben Young o filme de Werner Herzog preocupa-se com a dessacralização do ponto de vista que exotiza – a que talvez alguns chamem fatalmente paternalista. Mas será essa a condição Woodabe? Presos entre a pureza da tradição, sobre a qual não se podem emitir julgamentos de ordem nenhuma sem que se procure entender o significado atribuído ao Gerewal, porque é daí que se parte em ambos os filmes; ou enredados na urbanidade decadente do Sahel profundo? Atirados para o vício e o ócio, longe daquilo que os tornou homens? Woodabe sujos e Woodabe todos aperaltados. Para Ben Young só parece haver Woodabe aperaltados e é isso que deve ser considerado interessante. Para Werner Herzog os Woodabe são tanto os aperaltados como os sujos e são as razões e condições da mudança que determinam que existe um hiato grande entre o que é a pureza da tradição e a realidade (emergente talvez?). O que me interessa aí é que o discurso de ambos os filmes sobre mais um pedaço de África é um discurso que em última instância pouco tem a ver com o que lá está e como lá se vive. Em nenhum dos filmes existe qualquer historicidade e, por isso, é difícil atestar seja o que fôr. A pequena incursão de Herzog sobre a alteração de condições também não tem esse efeito, de nos dar uma imagem da permanência ou impermanência da tradição mostrada. Para todos os efeitos Gerewal é Gerewal. O mesmo acontece em Young. A ausência de informação sobre a constituição do povo em si permite o retrato ahistórico por parte de ambos os realizadores. A ideia de que a outridade daquela realidade africana possa servir como espelho para uma reflexão nossa sobre o conceito de Belo pode interessar alguns hermeneutas e a alguns platónicos estetas mas nesse passo poderá perder-se a capacidade de diálogo com o Outro, sendo que os Woodabe são praticamente mudos em ambos os filmes, só riem, fazem caretas ou falam timidamente com as câmaras. Mas é precisamente a outridade africana que perde. Estamos talvez no domínio da África das cores e dos rituais. África dos povos exóticos e das tradições ancestrais. África da oralidade. Mas também África do Sahel. África dos Peul. África nómada. Já estamos longe da África dos conflitos e da globalização assimétrica. É a África de outros media. Mas ainda uma África onde os ocidentais se buscam. Uma África que dificilmente se deixa ver.







a ler a quem possa interessar:

V. Y. Mudimbe, The invention of Africa

Among the Himba - only Himba can be Himba

What the hell was expected of this? They would be loving and open cosmopolitans who would appreciate her having a skin for a fun? was it supposed to be a slumber party, where they all wear red body paint? maybe such damage could show how much tourist like stance achieves. This woman, 37, mother of three, coming from Blackpool, with a nine-to-five job, subjected herself to living four weeks with the Himba in Namibia, for a documentary for BBC2, called "Tribal Wives". This exotificating pseudo-reality show was faced by the Blackpool woman as a way to find inner peace. Stupid projection ain't it? Find inner peace among harsh environments and mind boggling cultural differences! Is "inner peace" a commodity? Or is it what televison, self-help books, and general media sell as the outcome of cultural clashes? Shame on a television chain to subject an unwarned person to such a hasardous encounter just for the sake of "documenting". This is neither documentary nor journalism. This is a piece of "reality-TV", provoking certain outcomes for the sake of audiences. Are we supposed to learn about distant cultures in such imbecile objectifications?

A promotion newspiece in an online newspaper reads:

"...she was one of six women, chosen from thousands, to take up the challenge of experiencing a month living with a tribe in a difficult-to-reach part of the globe. And in experiencing their way of life, Yvonne found the inner peace that had eluded her for so long. Yvonne, who had only ever been on holiday four times in her life, saw a TV appeal for applicants in the British Medical Journal. "It asked if you could live in a remote part of the world for one month for BBC2 and I thought: That's just what I need," said Yvonne. "I had taken on a lot of responsibility for a long time," said Yvonne, who was brought up in southern Ireland and had no choice but to marry when she fell pregnant at 16. Her marriage ended six years and another child later. "I remember waking one morning in my early 20s feeling that I was suffocating. So I left Ireland and took the kids to the north west of England to start a new life. I had gained some qualifications and saw England as a place where I would have the opportunity to work my way up and provide a good life for my children," she said. Her courage and determination paid off. From starting out as a care assistant she has progressed to territory business manager for a pharmaceutical company and has a lovely home in Blackpool, where she lives with her children Sylvia, 20, Eoin, 19, and Jennifer, eight. There has been more heartbreak along the way. Her second marriage, which produced her lovely daughter Jennifer, failed. With so much personal baggage, Yvonne seized the chance to try the contrasting lifestyle of another world. "I knew I was going to Namibia because I had to get a visa, but beyond that, I had no idea what awaited me." After landing in the capital she and the film crew, plus support team, were driven over unforgiving terrain into the desert and a four-hut strong Himba community. Over the four weeks, she lived with each family getting an insight into the way family and community life is structured and witnessed the clearly defined role of women in a tribe where polygamy is the norm."

It's simply as if she was thouroughly chosen so that she would, could snap! This is TV! No boundaries! inhumane tout-court!



and an article about the series:
http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/tv_and_radio/article4105327.ece

and another one: with a reply comment from Yvonne Power herself:
http://popvultures.com/2008/07/17/tribal-wives/


Well these are simply clips from one of the episodes of this series, Tribal Wives. A tasteless example of what media are prone to do, also an example of how Africa is portraied again and again. If not, lets us list the following:

From tribal wives six episodes three take place in Africa: among Masai; Afar; and Himba. All of them are considered to be "far-away" people. From these three examples, one can list "cultural clash" elements prepared to shock in advance, by the series producers: "female genital mutilation; arranged and forced maariages, sacrifices, polygamy" All the elements that might induce estrangement. Because Africa is still "tribal" for most people! ...andd this series is a shamefull contribution to that image...

africa e ética pessoal

*

Quem sou eu para querer escrever sobre África, poderá legitimamente perguntar um africano. Que sei eu de África ou dos africanos para ter a pretensão de juntar a minha voz à das pessoas que antes de mim o fizeram? Que poderei eu trazer ao discurso que tenta fazer luz da experiência africana neste mundo? Será que as minhas motivações não residem em primeiro lugar numa tentativa de fuga da sociedade onde vivo e com a qual cada vez menos me identifico? Que tenho eu para dizer sobre África à luz do que penso, vivo e leio? Das relações que vou estabelecendo com africanos, mais e menos profundas? Um africano mais radical face à apropriação do discurso como forma de exercício de poder poderá ofender-se mesmo com o simples desejo de não olhar para o lado. Não olho para o lado quando vejo um africano na rua. Olho em busca de reconhecimento, que nunca chega, porque não tenho a mesma cor de pele que ele. Muitas vezes gostava apenas de dizer, em jeito de contra-corrente, “sê benvindo aqui! O que trazes contigo interessa ao mundo e interessa-me a mim! Gosto de histórias e de todas elas da sua qualidade existencial, independentemente de ser uma saga escandinava, um poema dos círculos do céu e do inferno italiano, uma epopeia lusitana ou grega, ou uma laudatória griot. Que sei eu sobre esse enigma que inventei para mim mesmo e que vivo horas por dia, através de memórias, emoções, reflexões ou relatos. Que sei eu quando as minhas andanças africanas se resumem a seis meses, e umas quantas e ainda nomeáveis localidades? Um filme passado no Waalo? Centenas de páginas de observações, amores e questões filosóficas? Que sei eu para tentar fazer sobressair a minha experiência quotidiana dessa grande questão que continua a ser esse termo que ainda me aparece carregado de uma enorme força. Às vezes sinto que o mundo tem sido carregado pelos africanos ao longo dos séculos, mas isso seria, é claro, uma grande mitificação. Quantas coisas positivas nos ensinam as suas experiências extremas neste mundo! Quanto a vontade pode manter de pé aqueles que desejam a vida! Serão os inúmeros livros, um verdadeiro prisma de visões incontáveis sobre as mesmas coisas? Incontáveis explicações! Tanta sistemacia! Mas e a força dos relatos na primeira pessoa? Coisas mais simples, mais humanas, ao alcance de todos, sem a pretensão académica de ter melhores grelhas para analisar a realidade, Hoje presto homenagem a Manthia Diawara, por “Nous pas bouger!”, título que por sua vez já é uma homenagem a uma música de Salif Keita que dá voz aos sans papiers africanos. Nous pas bouger obriga-me a pensar quem fala de África e as razões que levam alguém a querer falar de África. Poderão ser apenas profissionais? Será possível manter a passividade face a uma sociedade que afunda categorias de pessoas só porque foram categorizadas assim? Imigrantes!?!Precários!?!Desempregrados!?! Dir-se-ia que é uma sociedade que se tenta proteger dos elementos que considera de ruptura com a instituição, porque poderão, de alguma forma, escapar ao controlo das suas malhas. Como muito bem o vê Diawara, o que seria do sistema liberal ocidental sem a mão-de-obra barata? O que aconteceria quando os mesmos trabalhos exigissem melhores salários porque as pessoas contratadas são cidadãos que reivindicam os seus direitos? Mas, talvez, hoje em dia, com uma ainda maior retracção do Estado, restando apenas uma teatralização mediática do mesmo, não serão largos grossos de população cada vez mais atirados para a falta de oportunidades e aos trabalhos sem alternativa nos serviços? E mesmo nos serviços não continuará ainda a existir uma hierarquia que distingue “qualitativamente” as pessoas umas das outras, reservando um estatuto diferente a uma empregada de limpeza africana, um segurança português ou uma vendedora mulher jovem e bonita? Porque são a maior parte das empregadas de restaurantes fast-food nos multiplex africanas, ou brasileiras e brasileiros? Porque tem uma africana bem sucedida ou um africano bem sucedido de parecer um yuppie e não usar um grand boubou, a não ser que seja músico ou artista? Porque é que essas questões não se colocam quando se fala de portugueses? Porque é que o tema África não interessa a quase ninguém das pessoas com quem me cruzo? Uns respondem, ensaiam uma ladaínha bem conhecida: porque assim são as pessoas, só querem saber dos seus quintais! Não me satisfaz a resposta! Acho que só nos alimentam com merda nos noticiários e nos média em geral! A começar com a questão social! Quem disse que as gerações de hoje em dia não podem também questionar o estatuto da sociedade construída à sua volta? Não é porque sou português e europeu que não posso preocuper-me com africanos, indianos, brasileiros, ucranianos, chineses, e com todos os nomes que chamam às pessoas nos noticiários, nas conversas de café ou com o que se escreve sobre comunidades inteiras que vão vivendo mais ou menos alheadas de um debate social! Os africanos não precisam só de políticos que falem por eles enquanto pertencentes a uma questão social tipo imigração ou integração, mas sim de africanos nos pólos de discussão e legislação, para que defendam a sua própria reivindicação de cidadãos! Mas tudo nesta sociedade discriminatória serve para impedir esse exercício de cidadania! Tal como os patrões de hoje em dia se servem do argumento do desemprego para tiranizar os seus contratados a prazo! Não teremos saído do mediavalismo assim tão depressa! E, contudo, vivemos numa sociedade que avalia pessoas a partir de formulários, constrói-lhes a vida em items e compartimenta as experiências em abstracto, para as tornar entendíveis para um técnico de gabinete carimbar ou não a vida de uma certa pessoa, seja um funcionário do SEF ou uma profissional de recursos humanos. Muitas vezes, os avaliadores não se cruzarão mesmo com os avaliados, e portanto podem bem exercer os seus critérios mais sórdidos. Não haveria nunca espaço para que esse técnico se pudesse empatizar com Mamadou, Fatou, Hassan, Hejaz, André, Juan, ou com os seus nomes de família, Keita, Sow, Ahmed, Madeira, e ainda menos com o que esses nomes possam querer dizer, ou porque é que os pais dessas pessoas lhes atribuíram tais nomes. Hoje em dia querem mais saber de despesas orgiásticas, books de fotos, penteados, acessórios, highlife vinculada ao dinheiro; ou então, aburguesadamente com as mesmas coisas em pequena escala. Para quê querer saber desses que chegam quando os que cá estão também não andam bem, dizem alguns? E porquê, pergunto eu a uma dessas pessoas: porque é que se desfaz uma pergunta com outra pergunta, um assunto com a relatividade de outro assunto? Desculpa para a passividade? Comodismo e comiseração? Porque se espantam esses e outros com a força do não instituído? Porque se assustam com o que pode nascer daí? Não há mais desculpas que não sejam racismo para manter hiatos intransponíveis! Mesmo com todas as dificuldades que vão dum véu a uma burka, dum beijo à morte!

Fetish Africa / Modern Africa

For this post i will use as reference two films not exclusively focused on fetichism, or in modernity. They're simply good instruments for discourse and both great films, in my own biased humble opinion. As i have been doing on other posts, the imagetical-representational issue is always present. Cinema and photography have the power to convey meanings outside specialized strongholds, and so they have to be given credit, believed in, develloped. Don't expect that i will bring up issues that everyone discussing african cinema think important: Nollywood, Négritude, and others. I'm more inclined to post about specific things i come across one way or another.

So, lately i saw "Il va pleuvoir sur Conakry" by Cheick Fantamady Camara for the first time; and for a second or third time "Yeelen" by Souleymane Cissé. We are then between Guinea, and Mali, in the Mandé. But isn't it anachronistical to call it Mandé nowadays? Well, not for me, i much rather some less general names, and since I do no want to write about countries, i think it's a name that can adjust the purpose. One could also add Mooladé by Ousmane Sembène to consideration, but i don't see as many continuities as i do in the other two. But, even as i start, i should make clear that any continuity is of my own forging, my eyes, knowledge, experience, reasoning, and so forth, that see something underneath.



Yeelen is a film that has intrigued me from start, even before visiting western Africa. To see it again nowadays still amazes me as in it there are so many good reasons for keeping your attention turned on. This symbolic tale is the story of Nianankoro, a young man with a journey ahead of him, an iniciatic one. I've come to notice that there has been some debate around the depiction of reality in this film and that it has aroused some reactions along its life. For me though, it is clear that what's most important is the fact that what we see is intimately connected with what we know, and that this film has many many layers to be appreciated. What we think we know about how parents should treat childs, and the coming to adulthood, is no good here. References have their way of confusing us.

The central elements to Yeelen are a father's relation with his child, secret societies, generational clash, sorcery and curse. The iniciatic power in bambara society, is strong inside the Komo society to which Soma, Nianankoro's father belongs to. Soma starts the film invoking the power of Komo in the bush to guide him towards his son. Sacrificing a chicken, a goat, and an albino man he gets his magical post, held by two acolytes, to lead the way. He wants his son dead. Ninankoro is told by his mother that he should leave in quest of his uncle, whom has a powerfull fetish with him, the only one that can defeat Soma. In a visually stunning scene, closing up on both characters, Nianankoro and his mother, we presentiate the subtleness of bambara speech. The young man questions his mother and the nature of his father's wish to kill him, because he cannot come to terms with the fact. His mother simply tells him that questioning the relation of father and mother will bring a curse on him. He should simply accept things and his fate. With this she sends him on his way to find the fetish, while she herself procedes to the unleashing of her own power, by bathing naked in the marshes and pouring calebasses of milk over her head. She is of the earth. Not like Soma, of fire. She has been running away with her son but that can't happen no more. Nianankoro stops running when she sends him on to the inevitable clash with his father. The only thing wise to do is to be prepared. And Nianankoro's preparation is the way in itself, not the simple fetish in the end. On the dry sahelian plains or the cliffs of Bandiagara his father follows. Nianankoro will find a Peul village in war with their neighbours. Warriors seize him and bring him to the king. He is not afraid and will eventually use his power on them. He, alone, can take them all, with his magic. But he ends up helping them and getting one of the king's wife. Meanwhile Soma meets with the elders of the secret society and looks for their support in the defence of their secrets, which Nianankoro has used inavertedly. This is a “child” that shouldn't exist, whose existence is by itself a disruption to his father. We are never actually told why this is so, but i can guess that it has something to do with the code of belonging to these secret societies. Anyhow, Nianankoro will find his uncle and in the end triunf over Soma, his father. Not before knowing through his uncle's wise words that some sort of curse is upon their family, something her mother had already announced. One feels that Nianankoro is almost summoned to fullfill his destiny, and in this sense this is quite an epic film. But since that word normally has to do with a genre of cinema, let's leave it aside.



What about social, cultural, and historical references? Many african films do just that: referentiate and locate, in a time and space, so that the argument can be developed taking that into account. Maybe it's a trait that comes from the need to construct a specific type of discourse about the continent. But, in a very different way, that's what Cissé does, using no familiar references for westerners. The film is filled with a specific symbology we can't even attest to, but that doesn't matter. There's still an aura to this film that will tell you everything you need to know. If, by chance, you know that Peul and Bambara are on a certain area, you may get to conclude that this is around central-south Mali, maybe Ségou. Peul kings? Peul without Islam? Peul without magic? Well, the Peul have come from the remote Fuuta Tooro around the last quarter of the XIX century, to found the Macira Empire. Before that, the Peul around were scarcer. One of the stronger features of those peul invaders was their religion, in the wake of al-Hajj-Umar Tall. So, if any reference could be made, we would have to locate it before that period, which also corresponds to the islamization of bambara. But, taking into account what the film wants to depict, what's the point? None! This is not a story about Peul or bamana (or bambara) but about a family of sorcerers, sahelian rogues and wanderers, a mythical tale about the elements, water, fire, wind, earth, their summoning, and the rules of their summoning.

Taking on from there let's talk about Cheick Fantamady Camara's film, Il va pleuvoir sur Conakry, finished in 2006. This is a film clearly preoccupied with modernity and nowadays Guinea, socially, politically, and religiously, but also the nature of morals, and gender relations, about the multitude of references that compose life on urban Africa, and how newer generations are dealing with their issues against their older generations thoughts on how they should or shouldn't do it. This is the bulk of this film.



The main character BB is a cartoonist for a liberal newspaper of the capital. The choice of his profession is a commentary on the issue of the denmark cartoonist portraying the prophet Mohammed. BB also is on the right place to piss off sensibilities, through the sarcastic cartoons everyone seems to enjoy. But as his place in the newspaper consolidates, his father, the iman of the mosque, announces him that he has been told in his dreams that he should be his successor. BB cannot confront his father and tell him that he doesn't want to follow his footsteps through islam, and even less travel to Saudi Arabia to learn the trade. To add even more spice, BB's girlfriend gets pregnant. Reactions will start to configure the plot. On the side of the girl, parents are divided between the mother that believes she has failed as a parent and the father that liberally accepts the situation. But it's BB's father that will cause the fuss: he could never accept such thing: a bastard, a kid born outside a marriage, his status and creed don't allow it. But Cheick Fantamady Camara adds a new twist here, and things are not at all linear.

BB discovers that his liberal chief, and father of his girlfriend, is also used to make concessions to government officials, to “even” things out, publish some block some others. At the same time, BB's father is called to the ministry and is asked to pray for rain, because the drought has endured a long time. He is given a big pack of bills for “his troubles arranging the ceremonies”, which will be televised. The prayers start. The rain comes. The iman's influence grows. He can now be used as a strong political ally. BB finds a chunked paper on his bosse's trash bin, it is the weather forecast. Rain was due those days. Someone had hidden it and given the rain responsibility to the prayers. BB's father had been used without knowing it. His liberal boss had been conivent to safeguard his journal's position and not piss anyone off. BB gets revolted and sketches a controversial cartoon and shows it to his boss, who despite loving it tells him he cannot publish that. But going straight to the printers it is the drawing BB says they should publish. Despite being surprised because such cartoon is allowed to be published no one doubts BB. The thing gets published. It's a scandal! It's offensive on religion, it dessacralizes the rainfall, it ironizes everyone's position, and it will precipitate everything. BB's father, unknowingly that it's his son that published such infamy is outraged. BB's boss seeing that BB has gone around him fires him. The government official comments in conversation with the editor that this will have to be arranged. Everyone's status quo seems to have been questioned. The nature of the ties between media, religion, and government are bluntly exposed.



To reinstate order and come to terms between the families, the events and everything around BB and his girlfriend, they have to mutually concede. It is still BB's father the bigger obstacle, but by force of sexual deprivation and hunger, instated by his allied wives, and other voices telling him that such formal and conservative islam is nothing but a way of creating conflict. But he is stubborn, and wants to stick to his many pillars of faith, not all of them islamic. The fetish is also there, and ultimately it's the fetish that can achieve the “peace”. BB's girlfriend is to be sent to the “village” so that the secret society his father belongs to can have the child-bastard and bring it to society. After some more obstacles that's exactly what happens. The child is born in the village and immediately taken to the house of the fetish. But when we think it could have survived all this periple, things precipitate in death. The fetish hasn't been able to accept into the world a child that “should not have been born”.



What does this mean? These children that shouldn't be born? For BB it means he can no longer understand the values of his father and chooses to live according to newer references, not so close to the “village” or “islam”. What is the “village” and what is “islam” in this context? This is not just an issue of modernity or tradition, or the transition of one to the other. All this co-exists at the same time and to talk coherently about one or the other is a suspicious move. They're contradictory. They provoke clashes. Acceptances. Adaptations. For sure what is at stake in both these films are generational values. And which values will the newer generations embrace? Fetishism doesn't seem to be running out of place; nor does islam; nor does liberal creeds. Opposing values that co-exist is a task for speculators; because first, and foremost, values exist in bodies, with lives, choices, and those are the ones that will decide how things go.

What's interesting for me in these two films, as in others i have already cited in this blog, is the fact that theirs is not an objectification of Africa. Oil, diamonds, gold, conflicts, ressources, are issues that interest western media and films. Just how contradictions are lived and incorporated is a much more interesting way of knowing what's going on in Africa.


Films cited:
Yeelen – Souleymane Cissé, 1987
Il vas pleuvoir sur Conakry – Cheick Fantamady Camara, 2006
Mooladé – Ousmane Sembène, 2004

Akwa Ibom, Nigeria

I recently came across a couple of videos that have aroused in me multiple questions about the humanity in contemporary world, far far away from the repetitive question bombarded onto us about economic crisis all over the world. We shouldn't be delluded into thinking that our losing of comsumerism capability is the biggest drama of contemporary world because it's simply not. What these videos have has virtue is to slash open the scars of economic interests has they manifest in areas where people don't have opportunity to build their communities because over them hover cruel dominators, and terror inflicting mutants. These are videos that might come by you unnoticed if you choose to deny that "our" world may contain such terror. It raises almost a compulsory answer from us and it comes to haunt us. That the world "is not a nice place" we ear alot, but never get to the actual extreme manifestations with a clear light. There are certainly widely debated issues around Africa that deserve mediatic attention. Maybe what's on these videos should not be shown to certain people. Or, then again, they should be shown to everyone, to invoke the real need to question our current values, even if nihilistic tendencies might see that there are none around, and a whole lot of them everywhere. What these videos aren't is relativistic. They demand an answer to the incredulous person that watches them; and the person is stuck with, at best, with a cruel mirror for his humanity; where another person will easily index it to a confortable category: Africa. But wait a second. This is no question about Africa but a question about us being people, humans so they say. A child is a child. A scared child needs protection, not mutilation, trauma, or stigma. It's a question of social sanaty. The reproduction of terror is fear and more terror. Obscurantism was a part of western past and who's to say it's not there anymore? Returning to the question at hand, many issues are raised along "commercial" narratives, managed sinthetically by the media; some media have even started to ask themselves the question of how will they renew their control on the "prices" of information, being that the internet is rapidly eating newspapers and televisions up. Most of those issues raised by the media are actual problems, only the real consequences are unseen. Does it suffice to say that millions died, thousands were displaced, hundreds were raped, zounds died of hunger, and that a few have eaten grandiose meals while the others were perishing? Or to point it to endemic native features, or rooted conflicts? Does it suffice? Can you get any information out of it? How much information do you do you add up? But in questioning so much with death and people dying we are made happy to be alive. But let us continue to question and not stop there: let us ask what has happened do the living and the questions they deal in their ordinary life, the type of questions that are culturally specific and that will creat a social memory, or a social oblivion. And after this short introduction, the movies:



Akwa Ibom is a state in Nigeria where children are being accused of witchcraft, and subsequently killed, mutilated, and ostracized into non-existence. It is a part of the Niger Delta and there is oil being rigged from the coast. The ever present oil is around. Be it as it may, the children in the streets keep coming, thrown away by their parents, poured with acid, kerosene, beaten, cut, buried alive, accused of being witches, eating up human flesh in the night, killing a family member. Witchcraft is almost a substance being passed on from person to person, and from one world to a parallel one of darkness, where Satan and violence hybridize with pentecostal christianity, poverty and charismatic profets with the word of the devil, pastors of a illuminated gospel and harbringers of submission to the devils, mostly children. And yet another video is shown to have been at the core of this short-circuted clash of representations: christianity and traditional beliefs. Children of the Wicked, of the unamable Helen Ukpabio, pastor and schizophrenic believer of some world of gore where she seats her confortable big ass and produces videos to indoctrine people to believe that she is the solution to their problems and that by paying, people can be cleansed out of their troubles, and children seem to be specially targeted. Her gospel suits quite well her source of income. This film could be named something like: «terror marketing» or «propaganda from hell».



Of course the tacit acceptance of all this couldn't be achieved without a complacent society and a pervasiveness of the beliefs that allow such acts to exist. So, to explain even further, we have yet another video about cultism in Nigeria. Wole Soyinka, the only african nobel laureate in literature takes us into a university in Ibadan, a state of the Niger delta too, like Akwa Ibom, where he himself had studied and united with comrades of pre-independence to create the first college fraternity in Nigeria, called Pyrates fraternity; the reason some unfortunate accusations towards him and behind attempts to demise his status. He seems untroubled by any such arguments and explains how the degeneration of the country under a military regime, the abusive power of authority and dangerous links between cults and government, in Ibadan (not in Nigeria), where children of military are impune to slaughter, mangle people, fed on drugs and alcohol and bearing cult ties. Corruption is something anybody can understand but what startles are the ways. University students are being killed by the hundreds in just a few years by fellow university students that are cult members, as a statement for domination and impunity. Heads severed, acid baths, mangled violent death in brad day light are a way to impose psychologic terror, creating a climate i can't even begin to imagine.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S9jaiJJbKd8

(this video cannot be incorporated)

The continuity in mentality from Ibadan to Akwa Ibom state seems to be the most gruesome tought one can have. But i always question myself so as to not have anything for granted. I'm not easily shocked but i have values and principles as anyone does. This extreme example i have no name for: atrocity? barbaric? savage? tyrannic? unfair? the lexic that occurs immeadiately is of moral nature, because here we can find an example of how numb we are to "mediatic" conflicts. This plays in a quite different part of ourselves, in subcounscious regions the media rather not make too much fuss about. But this is surely not the only one.

This raises a huge moral question. Anthropology should also look at this one example to see how the limits keep imposing on us. What could be a solution to this? The dynamics aren't enough to characterize this. We should ask what causes and consequences to they lives of the people engaged in this, but also how is it to live terrified with an inquisitorial like scenario, and how can that mentality be made to be harmfull.

Like one of the guys in the first video roughly says: mix christianity and traditional beliefs; and i would add: cults and military; violent murder and demonic associations: and what you have is "absurd": or hell.

Well, this surely could use much more, but i can't think much about it yet.

Maraboutage

Islam is said to be a real social force in Senegal, it has long been associated with the social structures throughout the country and its influence is pervasive, reaching deep into the roots of the people we nowadays find there. At least since the first quarter of the XIX century that marabouts are a driving force in society, educating people in arab, passing on the readings and interpretations of famous "saints", and sheikhs. Most of these men are not be thinked of as being associated because in general they are not. Sufi islam, associated with local ethics and traditional ties, is about charisma and the ascension of a really important man is also a matter of his mastery of the divine word, composition of poems and comprehension of life. One of such figures is Cheikh El Hadj Malick Sy, which had come from an important madrassa in Fouta Djallon and ended up spreading the word throughout the territory, creating a legacy that hasn't been forgotten. The book being hold in the photo above is his story, one that Pathé, the man on the photo likes to read often and sings each monday in a religious rencontre of youngsters.

In the previous post i left in the air that some religious figures are political gamblers and that this has a profound effect in the way basic conditions and wealth distribution work. That is surely something visible; but there's also much more to the history of the figure of the "marabout" in Senegal.


Not all marabouts are at the head of the flock, or are able to exerce pressure politically. In fact, many man bear the name "marabout" and are representatives of yet another type of people, healers, medicine men, guérrisseurs, but and since Islam doesn't rule out mysticism they deal with forces from the invisible world not being considered to be pagans. They use special powders and mixtures to cure and protect from a myriad of ailments. People resort to these men often to come to terms with their personal problems, envy, bad omen, vampires, impotence, jealousy, and everything we can never explain clearly why is happenning. The little bottle Pape Niang is holding is half filled with "lion's piss" (gaindje saw) which is good to put away bad spirits, vampires and really dark and dangerous forces. I prefered not to smell it, touch it or anything; instead being a little skeptic i asked how he had collected it, to which he answered wigling his fingers: "i hipnotized the lion and got it". I could only smile at the profound hiatus of belief between us, not that it matters that much.

Anyhow, here are two more ideas about the extension of the word marabout. more will come.

Kër Chérif Sadibou Aïdara

a chërif is a religious leader in islam, and in Senegal as in other West African coutries, they have come to be in the possession of power. Muslim brotherhoods have been a part of the socio-political structure since centuries and nowadays the government officials still have to count them into and their influence in the power games played locally troughout the Sahel. This particular "marabout" is from the family of the Aïdara which are believed to be family of the prophet Muhammad, and is a family with an ascendence to arabicized moors.

At the centre is seated Cherif Sadibou Aidara. From his name only we can know that he is an influent man in the regions of Lac de Guiers in Senegal. Not far is the iman of the local mosque, the president of the rural council and the sub-prefect, a government official, and also not on capture would sit a government secret agent. This ceremony has taken place in the final day of Islamic Summit in 2008, taken place in Senegal's capital Dakar. Responding to an appeal of the president of the Republic this local power-man has convoked the local forces to reaffirm his public status and attach himself to the more generalized displays al around the country. But what he "sell's" as a religious ceremony is actually a political occasion where spoken "wishes" and "desires" for the success of the important Summit are in truth an expression of political partidarism. And even if the presence of other forces balances things here this marabout is active on the web of contacts he here exercises. It is a hierarchised type of influence which is controled by acquiring "partidaries". Coran is put to bless the "positive" outcomes...

dabakh thiane - poema do acordar

*

a força da vida impõe-se às palavras
quando saímos à procura de construir novas casas, que na verdade são sempre a mesma casa,
e só a limitação da memória com a sua tendência para a generalidade narrativa
dasarma a intensidade dos pormenores nem sempre muito evidentes
em algo como um diário.

havia um som
irreproduzível
de gonzos e ferrolhos
de velha lata convertida
em vibração metálica
a cada começo de dia
lá uns olhos inchados se abriam
em vespertino e entusiástico desejo
de descobrir
começando sempre da mesma forma
um portão que se abre e se fecha
em seguida um restolhar
vozes que se intensificam gradualmente
depois o rádio
e por essa altura já as cores dentro de uma casa se metamorfosearam
entre a penumbra e os primeiros raios de sol
a seguir os pés no chão sentem areia trazida pelos chinelos mal sacudidos
e o chão plástico
depois afasta-se uma rede que guardou o leito durante a noite
arrastam-se os pés até à porta da casa
abre-se um ferrolho
que soa diferente do outro
e ambos dos galos que cantam por teimosia
e dos gordos pombos que aterram sobre um telhado ondulado de chapa
e patinham para se lançarem em vôos que não se vêem
a porta escancara-se, entra luz,
o pátio já mostra sinais de limpeza e actividade,
pegadas na areia acabada de peneirar.
uma toalha ao ombro,
estremunhados os pés cambaleiam para dentro da casa-mãe
abre-se uma torneira,
um fio pequeno de água corre, fresco
e já um corpo desperta e se refaz com a limpeza
à volta já há pessoas sentadas à volta do pão fresco
salam aleikum
jam nga fanane?
cortesias dali e daqui
passos para aqui e para ali
crianças preparam as mochilas, cheias com dois ou três cadernos,
e muita porcaria que serve só para brincar,
dentro da casa ficam os mais velhos,
comem
trocam-se alguns comentários
fala-se sobre o dia que está ali mesmo
que se anuncia
com frases ensonadas
algumas vezes
chegam os famigerados estrangeiros
et voilà la teranga
comem bebem vociferam
partem aconchegaditos
e todos vamos atrás dos nossos intentos
dabakh thiane continua ali à espera
de novos ajuntamentos
ao longo do dia
debaixo do sol e debaixo da frondosa que ali habita
mais um dia
que terminará com o mesmo som metálico
que precede o silêncio total
até à madrugada
dos uivos e rosnados
dos zurros e balidos
...
antes mesmo de novo despontar
com o mesmo som irreproduzível
dos gonzos e ferrolhos
da chapa metálica que vibra
e dos olhos que se abrem


outros sentidos estão escondidos em muitas entrelinhas de diários. coisas que não se ouvem nem se vêem. olhares em redor que não se manifestam imediatamente. porque certos pormenores não podem pertencer a registos mais imediatos...a poesia alimenta-se do distanciar gradual...para depois voltar à fonte...com nova intensidade e desencobrir emoções...

Ricardo Falcão, Jan 2009

Waalo Waalo, movie trailer

Waalo Waalo means: inhabitant of Waalo, which was an ancient Wolof kingdom, located in today's northern part of Senegal. This is a movie about a village in the departmnet of Louga, a sahelian province, called Keur Momar Sarr and its surroundings, other villages in the bush; and the access to an important element such as potable water. Today when we discuss alot the importance of this ressource in days to come, there are already places where this wealth has become an important everyday issue since the 1970's. It is also a film about the dynamics of a local weekly market and the aspirations of life of local people, articulated with a couple of representations surrounding media and material wealth.

I'm doing this with a friend and we are currently working on the montage of the full feature. I'll be posting news. Meanwhile, if you know of anyone that might be interested please forward this link to them and let them know that we are looking for support to keep doing this; and also looking for support for the people who need decent infrastructures to improve their lives.

Click on the Video title to play it.
And here are our contacts:

ricfal@gmail.com

somindigo@gmail.com

Terra Sonâmbula - Mia Couto

Um rapaz e um velho escondem-se da guerra em Moçambique num autocarro incinerado, onde os corpos carbonizados deixaram para trás o mundo dos vivos. O rapaz desmemoriado perdeu-se da sua infância e foi acolhido pelo velho, que tudo lhe ensinou de novo como um pai. Sem sítio seguro onde se esconder dos grupos armados que patrulham a zona, nem zonas a salvo das bizarrias da guerra, que sítio melhor que um já destruído para se esconder? Mas que autocarro seria aquele? Quem eram os seus passageiros. Baixas anónimas? Um conjunto de cadernos é encontrado pelo jovem. Os cadernos de Kindzu. Uma nova vida, uma memória viva, uma memória de substituição para velho e jovem, uma vida através das palavras. Os cadernos de Kindzu dão nova cor aos dias repetitivos onde só a fuga não é possível. Vivemos, com os dois personagens, as aventuras de Kindzu...cruzando-se com todo o tipo de gente, fantasmas de senhores coloniais, oportunistas, negociantes indianos, mulheres...figuras que não podem descansar enquanto não lhes for feita justiça. Mas existirá a possibilidade de justiça num cosmos ferido de morte em lutas fraticidas???

...

"...a beleza daquela mulher era de fazer fugir o nome das coisas..."

“Honesty is a crime in this country”. This is the last cry of the misfortuned Ibrahima in Mandabi(the Money Order), a film by Ousmane Sembène. It’s a warning, a lesson, a paradox, that something that should have a positive effect ends up being the source of all troubles to this boröm kër (which in a quite literal translation means “chief of the house”, but needs to seen as a social status aswell). Money is that source of problems. Ibrahima, living in a in-saturated Dakar of the late sixties, nearby “la Grande Mosquée” receives a money order from his nephew immigrated in Paris, worth 250 CFA. Along with the note comes a letter saying that the money is to be kept for the sender, given to his mother and only a small part of it kept by Ibrahima himself. But soon things start to go in a different way. Ibrahima has no identity card and can’t cash in the money. To get an identity card he will have to get a birth certificate. To get the birth certificate he has to go to the in the police, where he is asked for three photos. He has 15 days to achieve all those seemingly easy tasks before the note goes back, returned to the sender, in Paris. Can he make it?
People immediately start to appear around Ibrahima. Friends hopping in to convince Ibrahima of their unsustainable situation. As In all Senegalese households, the teranga (translated as hospitality) obliges the borom keur to be polite and welcoming to his guests. Ibrahima shares whatever he is eating with whomever arrives. Rapidly they pass on to their real issue, word got out that Ibrahima has money. No one cares to whom it may belong, only that the man now “has it”. The iman of the mosque hopps in, a poor man asking for rice, a friend. Ibrahima’s wives also start to take advantage, for a day everyone believes easier times will come by. But Ibrahima is having troubles getting the things necessary for his ID card. He goes to a photographer to get the money but the guy doesn’t give him the photos and some days have already passed. Meanwhile the money order is still on the post office. The main character as already been obliged to loan out some of the money. The rumour of the arrival of money grants credit, in the promisse of a future cut of what’s to come. His sister comes too to get the share her son had destined her and this is when Ibrahima’s wrestle truly begins. By this time he is already talked about, as a cheap guy; someone that doesn’t share, people comment among them and start to criticize every step he takes. Being accused of not sharing in Senegal is quite a serious accusation.

As his sister demands her share he is obliged to pawn his wife’s gold necklace to the guy from the boutique, from whom Ibrahima had demanded credit and didn’t pay yet. He takes the gold necklace and says to him that he should come back in three days otherwise he is getting his necklace for 20 CFA, when it costed 150. Everything goes wrong then, nothing works and the honest Ibo feels he has to pull some strings. He recurs to his most influent relative and he manages to get his birth certificate. But he stills misses the photos in order to have the ID card and cash out the money. The string he pulled hasn’t been enough though. 9 days have passed and he goes after the photos but they’re still not done. He involves himself in a fight with the photographer. From the physical confrontation he gets out bloody and without the photos. Next he tries to get the necklace back and enters and confronts the boutique man. When things start to get hot everybody comes by to see and a great theatre is set up. People talk, Ibrahima’s wives jump in to defend him, a suited man takes his opportunity and solves the situation. He rapidly makes himself the procurator of Ibrahima, and promises him that he will retrieve the 250 CFA order. Next day they meet. The suited man is queezy towards Ibrahima. He swears he has cashed out the note but along the way he has been robbed coming back. The money is lost. The suited man words are so final that there’s no possible argument. Ibrahima is defeated, poorer, and hated in his community. Was the money stolen? Maybe first of all it was lost in a place of favours and counter-favours, a system informal at its base. Everybody wants to take a piece of the cake. This money has a sender: yes! This money has a target: yes! More than one actually. On a first scale there’s the immigrant sending the money to his family; but one can read there something else too: it's money coming from Europe where the young senegalese is sweeping the streets, it's a small coin! Ibrahima accuses the man of stealing, but quite rapidly accuses the whole of society with his cry: "In this country it's honesty that is a crime!"
Sembène protraits Ibrahima as a typical senegalese man. Chief in his house, where the wives take care of all his needs and manage too easily to go around the man's authority. It's actually one of the first rumours spoken out by the greedy men, that Ibrahima is run by his wives. As the poor man is praying more and more to Allah so that all this situation is over, because only God can solve this turnback, his wives are more cunning than him and they start counter-rumours acting out to safeguard what they think they have earned. He is just being played around.
The setting is Dakar of the late sixties. It is quite surprising how the streets were easy to circulate. Today it's totally saturated with cars: three lanes get to be eight quite rapidly; one takes hours to go from one place to another. The houses have also changed and it is now more difficult to find rural type houses inside of the urban and suburban perimeter of the capital. The dramatic change in the ladscape, from when Sembène filmed to today is mostly due to the migrations of million of people from the rural areas during the drought years and with the cronic absence of work. The household of Ibrahima still has the rural feel and that's about the only house we see from the inside in “Le Mandat”. In a first interpretation one can see the change between the rural and the city and how an illiterate person, that doesn't even exist is easily engulfed with the system surpassing him without him even noticing. But in a closer look, and knowing a little of the senegalese society i would say that's a much too simple conclusion for this film. It is much too simple to see only that. The type of interaction of these characters is less a dramatisation than a certain way of interacting in Senegal. People hopp in houses to eat, ask for help and fraternize. Senegalese households are open and no person should be left outside. Everyone is welcomed to enter. They call it teranga and it is translated as hospitality. But this specific way to be hospitable hides a veritable system of prestations, gifts, and social influence. It is teranga that doesn't allow Ibrahima to say no, and the others to allow themselves to want what is his. Money has changed the character of this system introducing numerical values to things once with another type of value.Money, of course, and Sembène is pointing it too, is coming from Europe, perverting the honesty of an essentially good willing man. Corrupting his good will is everything, so it’s the system in itself that is corrupt. Sembène doesn't blame individual characters but the whole of society, and his corolary is the statement i already transcribed: "It’s honesty that is a crime in this country". On a first glance i almost totally agree with Sembène. But his corrupt Senegal is still running on similar principles almost 40 years later, and people are still more or less being Senegalese and using the same code to interact, give and take.

Corrupt code? Code promoting corruption? Hardly! What's a country? What's a system? How does a system work out in a country? How can one model take overcome so many differences to the society where he was created and pretend to reconfigure social relations? How can a model conceived thinking of European citizenship make African persons be modelled to fit? Identity cards, money orders, birth certificate are distamt for someone in the bush and in this sense Ibrahima is no different from someone from the bush. What need has a Peul-Tukulor shepperd from the remote Fuuta Tooro for a card that means that he has to pay taxes? The benefits of belonging to this numerical community are inexistent to him, at least to his daily concerns. He can vote! Hooray! He can vote and become the target of politics promisses. Honesty is a crime in every country!

About taking photos in the bush.

To photograph where the element photo camera is an alien object, come from an unknown world, has its conditionalisms. Nothing remains as it is when we take out our little instrument to frame reality in a couple of shots supposed to objectify in some way what's being seen. The actual value of an image is, nowadays, one of the most interesting questions to try to solve. Where we live, the so-called West, we know alot about the value of icons but we have also reached a point where we tend to iconisize everything and for each massified image we have a set of perceptions construed in a global type of internet-ish tv-ish phrasing, mediatic jargon, appreciation and molding. Of course not all people suffer from the disease spreading out in a wide cultural-social space. Even though it's not possible to pinpoint who is and who isn't, a dumb consumer of perspectives or not, we can still talk about image reading. Images are read, catalogued, inserted, and molded to discourses. Having been in a certain place i recall a vivid image of some things. Bringing back the images i produced in a rush i show them and the reactions go from sheer amazement to pretensefull knowledge. Some are mesmerized by the distance this image represents and, at the same time, mesmerized with the fact that the person right next to them has been the one to go and get back with that image. I would call that the projection type of appreciation: people project themselves going to the place, taking the picture, and coming back. Other type of appreciation is being mesmerized with some pseudo-"truthfull" element in the portraied character, the beautifull eyes, the snare, the traquil quality of posing to a picture. This one is more of an aesthetic appreciation and a different type of projection, more in the spiritual void type projection. A third projection type is the arrogant, know-it-all, been-there-done-that type of appreciation, a contained type of comment. The people doing this, project a type of life of the photographer before looking at the picture. They know where it's coming from and they don't like the fact that they haven't been the ones to take the picture that everybody seems to say something nice about. More rare are the people that acutally look at the photo and know exactly what were the constraints present while taking that shot, look at the light and at the post-processing of digital. A more technical appreciation which comes in handy in the act in itself. Photography is on one side profoundly technical and photographers like to discuss technical overcomings.

But, on the other side, a part of me is really interested in what is being protraied. Isn't that the biggest issue while taking a photo? Showing that person or place or detail in that precise way and on that precise corner of the world? A moment where suddenly a rush comes over us and all we want is to have a stupendous frame translating our own emotion with what we see? In that sense photography is emotion. So, aside projections, what is also present in a frame? Without having a unique response to that question i chose these two images from a trip to Senegal.

Both of these pictures were taken in the village of Sam Kebe. What i'm about to do is describe the context of production of these images which i know many photographers prefer to leave hidden, guarding their own presence in the image they have produced, so that the image might be appreciated for what it is, but in this case i feel there's an excess of presence and so what immediately comes to my mind while looking at these pictures i took is the way i came to take them. So, as i was saying, at Sam Kebe i arrived with two more toubab, term used to designate white people, passing by Senegal. Toubab is actually a term coming from the arabic and it means doctor. Sometimes it comes out pejoratively and sometimes it's simply a way of making you stand out as the foreign element in the landscape. Three toubab enter Sam Kebe accompanied with two senegalese men, one a driver of a jeep and other a development agent of ASREAD, Association Senegalaise d'Études et dÁppui au Developpement, going for a meeting with the local Women's Group, working through this NGO in a farm. The agent is there to confront the people with the outcome of the year, to make clear the negative outcome of the project at hand. The women, disorganized are late for the meeting, and that leaves me time to leave the center of the village and the mat stretched for the visitors and go take pictures, while the other two toubab are still sitting. People were waiting Douda Ndiaye, but they got Douda plus three good subjects of curiosity. The toubabs originate comments and our conditioned contact starts. Photos are received with openness among some and rejection among other. I get up and start walking around the village. Not knowing exactly where to head and what is or isn't to be captured i wander around, followed by a hord of kids shouting, laughing, and saying "toubab photal ma" (take my photo toubab)with a hand hidding the smile, shamefully. Then these kids rapidly loose their shynness and start hopping in the frames. It starts to get annoying and i say repreatedly "Pusal" (move!). Pusal doesn't work; they are stubborn and don't want to move away. They don't know anything about trying to get natural poses and scenes from local life. Local life is on halt since the toubabs have arrived and it doesn't exist, a new local life is improvised around those presences. I'm taken with the hord to their school, which i'm proudly shown and which i'm not exactly interested in photographing because of the obvious condition of achievment. Anyway i do it for the kids but that doesn't seem to calm them but, on the contrary, to excite them even more, wanting more pictures. I have to continue walking; i'm then called inside a concession filled with women. They also get agitated. Toubab Toubab Toubab. Photal! Photal! I raise the camera and photograph a woman with her child as the other laugh loudly and happily. She shows off her child which seems to be the only one not liking the spectacle. The baby cries. I take the picture and wonder what's the meaning of all that. I go on saying something similar to see you later and continue to wander. Somehow i stop nearby the center of the village where the reunion had already started and i wasn't at all interested after the photo quest. I stay at sight distance but don't go near. The kids finally leave me and go play somewhere else, losing interest. I'm standing close-by the house of the chef de village and not far away people are taking water from a small point, taking it in their carts. I have a vague perception that water capture is something i'm interested in photographing because it is something i have already seen as an important element. Tired i don't go near and take a frame or two at distance, with a lens without zoom capability. I go back to the reunion. I listen. I'm out because i haven't been there from the start. It ends. Things start to revolve once more when i want to take another picture, of the man who so silently had been present in the shadow throughout all the episode and was still in the same place, smiling. He manages to stay put and the 1/30 shutter speed is enough to get him clearly. Around him, kids have already postitioned but they are so eager to hop in that the slow speed of the shutter doesn't manage to freeze them clearly. They're freezed in their agitation. Not knowing what was the outcome of the day, in terms of images, i go away with the two toubab. When i see the pictures i'm frustrated as always. They never seem to portrait what i see. But akwardly they give me back my presence. The agitation is me. The disturbance in the frame is my presence. Technically they are nothing. They don't stand out. The day is reduced to crap. But something stays and endures. One year and a half later i still see it. It's me at Sam Kebe. It's the people of Sam Kebe looking at me and saying hello to my country, where i'm taking back the photos. Later i got to become friend to a man from Sam Kebe and today I'm sure i could go back in other conditions. What type of conclusion can i reach with these frames? I don't use zoom. When i photograph close it means that i'm close to my subject. But photographing close doesn't mean i'm close to placing him in the right position so that i can show who he is. He has many sides as we all do. I don't know the 100th of them. I immobilise him. I freeze my own moment.

Lac de Guiers

All these images were taken in the margins of the Lac de Guiers, in the region of Louga, north Senegal. They were all taken at about the same hour, by dusk. They are from different spots of the lake, Giddick and Guéweul, two small villages part of the arrondissement of Keur Momar Sarr, a small village with an official representation of the senegalese government.

The northern part of Senegal is a semi-arid desertified area that has endured a considerable period of drought, as it has been happening throughout all of the Sahel, comprising 11 countries ( Senegal, Mali, Niger, Sudan...). This specific region remembers its hardest year being around 1973. The water from this important lake has dried and the lake soil was cultivated, being the only moist soil available at the time. These harder years have passed, and the barrage of Diama was built, making the flows of water more regular, permitting the retention of water in a constrain in Guéweul. This water is not pottable but finds treatment in two stations located in the western banks of the lake. These treatment stations don't reach everyone though; their priority is to take water to Dakar, the capital of Senegal, to serve more than half of its 5 million population, helped by the additions along the main pipe of underground water sheets. But how come people not far away, and even by the side of the stations havent got any cleansed water?

I have much thought about it and for about four months have been trying to find some answers for this question questioning local people. That period has passed and i can't seem to come up with a single answer for that state of affairs. It is easy to point the finger and find a guilty party but it's more productive to try to see how having water or not having water may condition an entire way of living beside the obvious, the time spent to retrieve it.

Much can be said about the quality of this water. It is not potable. Any european or urban based person used to drink treated water would immediately feel the consequences diarreahs and all type of diseases catchable through the water. The dry season is worse, as the banks retreat the deposits tend to make the water more and more dirty, becoming quite dark. The dry season is nine months long in northern Senegal, but from the three months of winter not all is rain.

The bigger part of the small villages around have no access to potable water and many are forced to move as the dry season reaches its peak. Others, closer to the lake, go everyday to get the water they need for one day, getting back for the same next day. The whole process might take three to four hours. Normally the way is done on a cart pulled by donkeys found and bread on the bush, sometimes with horses, other even without cart. Plastic containers and air chambers are the avilable way to transport the much needed asset. As you see in that picture it's a women's work, and there are a load of reasons for it to be like that. I'll post later about it, dedicating more concise attention to that issue. As i will also talk a little about the fact that these populations are essentially Pulaar speaking people.

For now, it's important to underline the fact that not having the commodity of easy access to such an important thing as water leaves no room for lazyness, or tiredness. The people stand tall everyday to bring back to their village what they need. They are no victims.

(to be extended)

First Statement - General Objectives and Objections

I am someone working about Africa for some time now. It's never enough to know more about this and that, to hear and consult with people, to see how, in fact, people portrait Africa in their discourse. But hearing, seeing, and thinking, have long been left as simple additions to what i consider to be actual knowledge, which is incorporation, even with all refutations there might emerge to a similar statement.

This blog won't come out simple, easy, univocal, or perfectly guided and aimed. This is a space for a serie of ideas that don't resolve immediately between each other. Despite that it has a double aim: to inform about Africa and a collection of perspectives on the subjet, from history to agency, to politics and misleading images; and to be included in a series of blogs i intend to keep with a link to Google AdSense. Yes: clicks worth of money. Hopefully contents will be worth clicks. There's no reason this shouldn't be said.

There's, on the other hand, a reason for this. Working away from academic institutions in academic related issues, that is to say, professionalized type of perspective, is like signing a contrat with yourself, and if dedication strikes you, then most certainly you'll find yourself with a responsability towards what you conceive to be your project. Simply, that doesn't mean you'll earn a single dyme out of it. That's the case. I've been financing everything i do towards this personal, let's call it quest, from trips to technical gear of film and photography, and simply sharing what i have with some people back there, Africa, Senegal, Mali.

Finally, this is also intended to be a part in what's considered to be open source today. Science should be free and not defended through a weakening of what's outside of it.