Streets of…

Tacchi alti e gambe levigate, abiti svolazzanti e frivoli, passi lenti. Le donne di Ningbo sono molto curate, consapevoli di dover piacere e vogliose di adeguarsi a modelli occidentali di bellezza. Non esistono abiti tradizionali o almeno non ne ho visti finora. Gli uomini sono piu` trasandati o meglio meno interessati a curare la loro immagine esteriore. Sono affettuosi con i figli. Le persone si sposano e hanno figli molto presto. Tra i venti e i venticinque anni le donne, fino ai trenta gli uomini.
I movimenti del corpo non sono per nulla affrettati. L’immondizia per strada e` raccolta da spazzini che vanno in giro in bicicletta. Anche loro vanno lenti, la pedalata e` cadenzata. Sono tutti molto calorosi e gentili. Ningbo e` una citta` molto ricca, le insegne colorate si illuminano con la stessa intermittenza del suono di cassa dei negozi e dei supermercati che affollano le strade del centro.

L’esteriorita` della Cina puo` essere fuorviante. Se non vivo con delle persone di qui rischio di perdermi anche io nel glitter di questo folle consumismo. Oggi chiamo l’amica di Amy, la donna cinese conosciuta in aereo, sperando che abbia una stanza da fittarmi.

First few hours in China and memories of other places start to come up my nostrils. The place smells like Malaysia and the humidity in the air sticks to the skin like a jelly substance, which at once protects and irritates it.

The journey has been exhausting and the luggage heavy. Too much equipment and not enough sleep. It’s interesting how events and things have already started to overlap in my head. I am in Ningbo, but it feels like only now my mind has started registering things and events occurred since I landed in Shanghai yesterday afternoon. Sitting on the floor of the bus, which took me from the airport to the South Bus Terminal I was mesmerized by the landscape. I close my eyes and I am there again, the mist hovering upon us – a cocktail of pollution, humidity and cloudy summer light – permeates the air lifting the already tall buildings to a surreal status of post-modern totems.

The electricity towers running along the sides of the highway with their intricate wires split the pale sky in irregular slices. I sit on the floor of the bus among cardboard boxes and suitcases of fellow passengers. My eyes are dying to close on a restful sleep and yet I can feel the excitement running along my spine as it is massaged by the rolling movement of the vehicle, while the impatient horn of the bus driver keeps at bay unruly scooters and wild taxi drivers.

I can’t believe it, I’ve already been two weeks in China! Time goes so fast that it is difficult to keep track of the things I see, the people I meet, and the wonderful food I’ve had the pleasure to eat!

It is true that this feeling of a slow catching up with things is partly due to the slow motion effect of the jet lag and to the fact that I spent the first week at the University of Nottingham in Ningbo to present “Streets of…” at the DRHA conference.

I arrived at the campus at night and it was all a bit surreal. The heat, the huge buildings which seemed to have landed from another planet on the well tended English grass, the red sky, the sound of the insects emerging from the deadly silence… Where am I? China? Can this really be true?

Artificial lights

To listen to the sound click on this link:
Crickets-004

So here I am, and it’s summer again. It had already turned a bit chilly in London before I left and I am not sure if what I put in the suitcase will make any sense, considering the limited preparation during the hectic few weeks before taking off to China. The trip is sponsored by the British Council as part of the “China – UK Connections Through Culture” programme. So I am here to reseach my next piece “Streets of Shanghai”, see a couple of locations in the country and meet local artists to establish possible collaborations.

I am excited and yet too dizzy to make sense of the reality around me. Will I sleep tonight? Delegates will arrive in a couple of days. Will the conference help me to develop this piece? How?
Too many questions. My head cannot relax. I feel the exhaustion. I should go to sleep.

I go up to my hotel room after a short stroll around the campus. I fall asleep, but then the sound of fireworks wakes me up after only a few hours. What is it? What do they celebrate at 6am?
To listen to the sound click on this link:
Fireworks-006

I look through the window. I can’t see much. Only the dim light of the new day bathing the imposing buildings surrounding the campus. It’s time to get up and start my day.

20 March

It is difficult to describe my feelings at the moment. How can it be that one moment I am sitting at a café in the Petit Socco of the Old Medina and a few hours later I see Victorian houses running alongside the railway lines on my way back home?

Where is home?

My spirit moves slower than my body.

My eyes are still filled with the brightness of the sunlight, which reflects on the white walls of the old buildings facing the Strait of Gibraltar.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Strait_of_gibraltar.jpg”>

I woke up at 4am this morning. As usual the adhan was followed by the ‘alarm cock’ (as I had nicknamed my local black rooster) calling the dawn on my last day in Tangier. I got up, tumbled over my suitcases, switched on my sound recorder and went back to bed. Somehow I got used to this chant, its powerful, subliminal message which sinks down in my conscience at the spiritual peak time of the day.

I don’t want to get up.

I’m not ready to leave my room, sit down at the Café Centrale for my petit déjeuner, pay the hotel room and get a taxi to the airport! I’m not ready to say goodbye to this place. I just started feeling part of its everyday life, ready to take creative action while people protest for their rights in the streets. A demonstration has been called today and I will be on the plane…

Outside it’s still dark. My body sinks in the uncomfortable springy mattress. My inner eyes fly over the hills overlooking the city’s intricate streets.

The last week in Tangier has been intense. I met with Mohcine and Rachid, two photographers whose work reflects the many personalities of this complex city.

I had a brief meeting with Simo, a video artist, at the Cinémathèque de Tanger. I met with the representatives of cultural institutions to talk about the final installation and possible creative activities in schools in Tangier and London. Finally, I met with the Maâlem Abdellah Boulkhair El Gourd, a well known Gnawa master who lives just a street away from me in the Old Medina.

With Abdellah I spent most of my afternoons this week, talking about the city’s history, the war in the Maghreb region, the Gnawa music tradition, its rites and visual representations.

Before leaving London I had researched and discussed the significance of the Gnawa music with Simo, a film maker based in Essaouira, whom François had put in touch with me via email. From him I learned about the connections between Gnawa and the spiritual practice of Sufism and how the Gnawas are a brotherhood practicing a rite of possession, which is accompanied by music and dance. This syncretic cult bears similarities to Brazilian condomblé (which I explored during my work in Salvador de Bahia), Southern Italian tarantism (which I know through the religious festivals I saw in Italy) and African Voodoo.

According to Simo Gnawa is a mix of Muslim religion and African animism. Although the subject is still studied by anthropologists, it is accepted that the members of the cult, the Gnawas, perform a complex liturgy, called lila or derdeba. The ceremony recreates the first sacrifice and the genesis of the universe through the evocation of the seven main manifestations of the divine demiurgic activity. The lila is animated by a maâlem (master musician) and his group who perform a special form of music which brings the followers to ecstatic dancing and possession. During the whole night ritual the musicians perform a swirling acrobatic dance, while playing the krakebs. There are still many lilas organised as private functions by the masters, which retain the sacred, spiritual status of the music testifying of the continuous presence of this syncretic cult in Moroccan cultural life.

In his last email Simo had warned me that i have to “take care with what it’s written on the Internet and even in books, as there are many stereotypes and a narrative untrue in connection with gnawas being descendants of slaves”. According to Simo “their ancestors, which were spread everywhere in Morocco, came in their majority from the armies Haoussa /Bambaras primarily to reinforce the royal guard at the time of Moulay Ismail, the famous Black Guard, which was the vastest army in Africa durung the 17th century. They had promised fidelity and allegiance to the dynasty of Alaouites on Coran from which came their nickname Abid El Boukhari, the slaves of Boukhari. They ensured the peaceful transition from the royal dynasty and their presence was at the service of the Palace. When their army was relieved in his great part, the Gnaoua families which chose to remain in Morocco practiced artisan trades (they were blacksmiths, but also carpenters, tailors, etc.) or became musicians and healers. As skilful musicians they preserved their musical tradition”.

For this reason Simo suggested that it was important to visit Mâalem Abdellah Boulkhair El Gourd founder of Dar Gnawa, a kind of establishment for the instruction, practices and the promotion of the Gnawa culture.

Following Simo’s last email I was waiting anxiously to meet Abdellah in person. So it did not take me by surprise that Abdellah came into my picture of Nadia, the young woman who I photographed a few days ago, while he was walking down the narrow alleyway to his house. This was a couple of days after my arrival and well before our first introductory meeting.

Abdellah entered my camera frame to become part of the project even before I knew it.

Is this Gnawa?

Is this the essence of the microscopic movement which is kept intact within the walls of the Petit Socco and I have learned to love so much?

Am I really back home?

What is home?

Click on sound: Extract of Gnawa music by Maalem Abdellah El Gourd

8/3/2011

I’ve arrived in Tangier at the crucial time of the people’s revolution in the Middle East. It’s 7.30am and I can hear the roaring of the Arab masses crying for their freedom from the corrupt regimes of Tunisia, Egypt, Libya, Mamlakat al Baḥrayn (Bahrain), Yemen. Their voices are running along the alleyways of the old Medina. Has the revolution kicked here as well?

Click on sound: News from Libya

The sounds of the TV sets from the small cafes in streets come up to my room through the closed window mixed with the banging from the construction site of the port. I find out about the latest news when I get down to the Café Centrale. The TVs are all tuned on Libya. People are glued to the screens, making comments and shaking their heads to the images of demonstrators being killed in the streets of nearby states.

So, here I am, sipping my coffee and trying to make sense of all the things learned in the last 48 hours. Mohamed, the young man working as waiter at the Café starts chatting in French. He shows me a paper with the news of Moroccan people who were repatriated from Libya on the same day of my arrival.

I ask if it is possible to go to the new port and take pictures there. He says that I need a special permission and it’s not easy. Why should I want to film there?

I am not sure. I think I do… but then, as if cradled in my chair, I get trasported somewhere else, my eyes fixed on the slow, constant movement of people passing through the narrow streets and squares of the old Medina. I just need to be here.

Mohamed comes to sit next to me and shows me an article in the local paper adding another bit of information on Tangier.

I learn that this is the first city in Morocco with a telegraph, a telephone centre and a post office. I say to Mohamed “this is a port of communications!” He nods smiling and draws me a map of the city to help my orientation.

I have been sitting for hours and and I start feeling the urgency to take my camera and do some visual research.

I walk around and is fine, but I can sense people’s resistance if I get closer with my camera.

There is somethings about this process I am not sure…

I think I need to relax. And maybe it is better to continue listening, to remain with the sounds. The images will come. We need time…

Click on sound: Kuran

7/3/2011
I look at the list of people who have been here before me. So many writers, painters, musicians, politicians, kings and queens, sultans and sailors have been through Tangier that it makes my act of recording sounds, movements and actions a complex task.

I come after the paintings of Matisse and Delacroix, the music of Paul Bowl, the words of Allen Ginsberg, Peter Orlovsky, William Burroughs, Jean Genet, Roland Barthes, Gore Vidal, Tennessee Williams, and Samuel Beckett. This is the city where Churchill, Onassis and many others stayed because of its key role on the international political and financial chessboard.

I have two weeks to read about Tangier’s history, its culture pre and post colonial independence, pre and post its status of international city, to make ‘rational sense’ of the images and sounds in which I am immersed. I walk along the narrow alleyways of the Old Medina, and visit a couple of museums in search of clues.

Click on sound: Voices in the Old Medina

It is early afternoon and my helpless look must have convinced Francois that we need a long conversation to pick up the fragments of the polyphonic narration, which like a shawl covers the contours of the city, as it lies languidly on the sea. We go up to the roof terrace of the hotel which overlooks the port and I let the wind carry away my anxieties and insecurities.

The sound of the adhan, the Islamic call to prayer from our local mosque fills the air. It is mixed with the clucks of a vociferous cock perching on the balcony of the house next door.

Click on sound: Adhan

The terraces of the old buildings around us with their hanging clothes remind me of Naples. I feel at home. We sit down and talk.

With his soft voice François starts telling me about the many myths of Tangier. I listen entranced as he talks about the links between the history of Noah and the creation myth of the ancient Tingis, a land coming from “la boue”, the mud that was formed after the deluge. This is “la terre originelle”. According to the Old Testament the city was founded by Shem, one of Noah’s sons, and founder of the Semitic people also known as Middle People

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sons_of_Noah

But then again following the Greek myth it was the giant Antaeus, the son of the God Neptune and the Goddess Gaea, who founded Tingis.

www.marvunapp.com/Appendix4/antaeus.htm

The story says that Antaeus was defeated by Hercules during a wrestling match. Hercules had traversed the sea between the European continent and North Africa to fetch the golden apples from the garden of the Hesperides, hence the pillars marking the confines between these two parts of the world.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pillars_of_Hercules

Francois says that we need to visit the cave of Hercules, an archaeological site with Paleolithic inscriptions to feel the power of the myth. We will take a “grand taxi” to reach the site.

I listen with concentration, while taking notes. The wind softly blows away the clouds hanging on the horizon. I loose track for a moment, but then François takes me back to the legend of Atlantis. According to Plato the mythical city was located right beyond the Pillars of Hercules before disappearing around 9,600BC.

I look at the sea in search of signs. The seagulls are circling around the antennas. They are looking for food. The adhan starts again. I can’t believe that two hours have already elapsed. François moves quickly through the centuries, when Tangier becomes a Carthaginian port and then part of the Roman Empire. There is a long series of invasions, the Vandals, the Visigoths, then the Moors rule the city and in 706 AC Tangier becomes the base for the conquest of Spain. He continues with a long description of movements, migrations, conquests and defeats, up to the time of the French colonial power, independence, the international status, and finally the incorporation within the Moroccan state.

How many steps before mine have inprinted their marks on the old pavements of the white city? I feel the thin layer of ancient dust filling my nostrils. It’s chilly, I’m tired, and I need a cup of tea. We get down to the Café Central.

I landed in Tangier a week ago, on 6th March 2011. I had three hours sleep before heading to Stanstead Airport in a mini cab early in the morning. Although I had checked the train timetable the night before and all seemed to work fine, Tottenham Hale station was closed. So I had to call back the driver who took me the station and asked him to drive me to the airport. As this is a self funded research trip, I was worried that the costs would start escalating even before I left the country. But this project has its ways to catch me by surprise and in the end Seyit, with whom I had become friend during the 45 minutes drive, did not want any more money. So there I was, queuing up at the Ryanair check in desk, half asleep and already thankful for the helping hand that guides my steps in my journey across the continents.

3.00pm. Ibn Battuta Airport. François is waiting for me. I am happy to see him, definitely too tired to face this first encounter with the city on my own. Preparations in London were frantic; as usual I had too much to do before leaving with no time to check the weather cast and prepare my suitcase accordingly. And now I find out that Tangier it’s a bit chilly and rainy in March. After all it is on the same meridian of London, I should have known…