Tuesday, December 22, 2015

MAI PUBBLICATI - NEVER PUBLISHED

Sand, silica and lime  

It is quite obvious why a simple but wonderful mixture of sand, silica and lime provided Aborigines with shelter, a medium for their artwork and an inspiration for their mythology, and later became the most used building material by white men: sandstone is everywhere around and underneath Sydney.
Formed by sand grains transported by wind or water and laid in strata which are extended for kilometres, Sydney's sandstone began to form in the Triassic period about 200 million years ago.
Dramatic changes in climate and vegetation created the ideal conditions for the formation of Hawkesbury Sandstone on which Sydney is built.
As marine fossils have never been found, it is possible that once the area was a huge delta where fresh water carried sand particles.
Far later many species of plants as well as animals adapted to this new environment and eventually humans appeared.
Aborigines were the first humans using sandstone: they lived in and decorated naturally formed caves, built tools, utensils and weapons of sandstone and made particular sandstone formations their sacred sites. 
In the late 18th century the Sydney area witnessed the first British settlement: all materials used to construct the initial buildings were poor and there were not many tools or skilled men available. All properties were crown land and leased on a   short-term basis depressing incentive in building quality.
Under Governor Lachlan Macquarie's leadership things began to change.
Architects and skilled men (stone masons) arrived from Great Britain and thanks to Macquarie's grant concessions the public building programs began to proceed much faster. With the supervision of Francis H. Greenway, a convicted Architect who designed many beautiful buildings which can still be seen today, building material was standardised and the use of sandstone promoted. 
Architect and human-rights activist Ms Fiona Folan says:
- Abundancy of sandstone helped to create the Architecture of the Colony. Sandstone as a material was functional, utilitarian and authoritarian: Australia was a penal colony and convicts were used in the quarrying and cutting of stone blocks as well as in building.
Administrators began to use their resources of cheap labour and unlimited sandstone to erect permanent public constructions. 
Quarries started their activities everywhere in and around the Sydney area (Bondi, Paddington, Hunters Hill, Balmain).
The use of sandstone increased considerably and become such an important activity that in a few decades (1855-'56) The Operative Stonemasons' Society in Sydney was the first in the world to win the right to work the eight-hour day.
Sandstone has been put to a broad range of different uses: public building, roads and bridges; churches, monuments and tombstones; houses, forts and barracks, lighthouses, warehouses and cellars; schools, clocks, hotels as well as steps, walls, gatehouses and entrances. Many of these works have been decorated by fine sculpting.
This massive activity involved a large number of skilled and unskilled labourers.
Iniatially they were convicts but when the system of transporting convicts was
abolished and gold was discovered in the eastern colonies the supply of cheap labour came to an end and the building industry began to suffer.
Around 1890 more brick edifices were starting to appear and gradually the use of sandstone was reduced.
- Sandstone reserves were being depleted by the huge request of material.
Advances in building technology led to the development of alternative building materials such as bricks and then concrete block which imitated the sandstone look while being easily and economically produced. Concrete block is also lighter and readily conforms to modern building regulation making it far superior to sandstone for mass production - Ms Folan said.
Today the use of sandstone is limited to restoration of old buildings or the cladding and paving of new ones while thanks to a number of artists the ancient art of carving continues: Geoff Pollard is one of these artists.

****************

I met Geoff two years ago attending one of his carving courses. Carving is a challenging and difficult way to use stone. But Geoff Pollard's endless patience and his 13 year experience allowed me to achieve an acceptable result in a few hours of practice and enabled me to carve a cheerful relief to take home.
But there are those who went further than I did: while I was slamming my hammers on a punch, beside me someone else was giving the last gentle touches to a perfectly sculpted head.
Geoff Pollard, a pupil of one of Australia's major contemporary artists, Noel Gray, actually took over the classes when Gray moved from Australia to the USA.
His earliest means of expression were drawing and music. Then, to make a living, he became a piano tuner.
 His first experience with practical sculpture dates back to his return to Sydney after spending one and a half years in Europe. He got a job restoring pianos which involved carving timber.
Through this new activity he understood he had found the way to express himself artistically and soon the idea to work on sandstone challenged him.
He was looking for good stone such as Debden (NSW) or Donny Brook (WA) at the Gosford Quarries' store in Annandale when he met Noel Gray and that's how his career as a sculptor began.
A career which included collective works such as "The Cities of the Blue Mountains" (Visitor Centre - Glenbrook), restorations at the Sydney City Library (Hay Market) and lately the biggest sandstone relief  in Sydney, "Creative Energy", located at The Ritz Apartments (Cremorne).
He also exhibited his works at Parramatta and Greenwich exhibitions and in several galleries at The Rocks where some of them can still be seen.
Usually a reserved man, when asked about sculpting, he can't help but became
excited:
- Sculpting for me is feeling like a child holding his favorite toy and playing his favorite game. It gives me a sense of interaction as I am handling such a solid material as stone and it provides me with the way to explore an infinite number of rooms to my creativity - he said.
Soon our conversation turned to a more practical aspect of carving:
- Tools used in carving are essentially four: a hammer, a punch, a scutch and a few different sized chisels, - Geoff said.
- Conceptually they are the same since man began to carve stone thousands of years ago. Work on relief is relatively simple and this is where most people are encouraged to begin.
- Once you have sketched your subject on the slab of sandstone, you want to exalt it by cutting away with a wide chisel the contour around the lines you have outlined. Next step is to whittle down the useless material and the punch does this rough job - he said.
While he was talking, he got his hammer and punch and started to hit a block of stone and with some appropriate touches an old Egyptian figure appeared: amazing!
- Then you begin to define your subject and to give it an evenly carved base using the scutch," he showed me a notched chisel.
- Finally you use your chisels to refine your work, " he said pulling out from his rough leather bag a number of chisels with an octagonal handle - they are more comfortable to use than the hexagonal handle ones because of their wider shaped corners - Geoff explained.
Shortly under his expertise a section of the relief was completed.
- The last part of the job is to get your work smooth: you have to get rid of all sorts of bumps, rough spots and chisel marks by using a polishing stone like carburundum or sandpaper - he said.
The atmosphere at the classes is creative: "Teaching the class helps me to pick back up all the energies I have spent during the day, thanks to the depth and sincerity of the students involved."
According to present students Paula, Naomi, Scott, Mark and Andrew, carving classes are an exciting experience which stimulates creativity, enriches practical skills for its immediate, direct contact with sandstone and last but not least  is a very good stress relief for the physical work involved. 
The Sun was going down on the magnificent city view you have from the Annandale's workshop location, creating an intriguing interlude between skyscraper and sandstone reliefs resting on benches.

Watching students replace tools while still listening to Geoff’s last words of advice, it becomes apparent how intriguing it is to challenge oneself in this modern age with such an ancient art as stone sculpting.

Monday, December 14, 2015

Carbone...e altri disastri

Non erano passate ventiquattro ore da quello che qui definiscono un “coup”, il classico colpo di mano, con il quale nel settembre scorso Malcolm Turnbull ha spodestato dalla guida della coalizione liberal-nazionale il “destroide” Tony Abbott, che il rappresentante della “sinistra” del partito conservatore dichiarava che la sua politica per l’Ambiente si sarebbe completamente distaccata da quella del suo predecessore.
Ad oltre due mesi di distanza da quelle dichiarazioni, dei cambiamenti a così gran voce promessi e strombazzati su tutti i media nazionali, non c’è neanche il più vago sentore, anzi...
Alla vigilia della Conferenza ONU di Parigi sui cambiamenti climatici, la cosiddetta COP 21 (30 novembre – 11 dicembre), a cui prenderanno parte migliaia tra delegati, esperti, ricercatori, operatori media e osservatori che giungeranno dai quattro angoli del pianeta, le autorità australiane hanno voluto, per così dire, riaffermare a gran voce quella che era e rimane la linea ufficiale della politica ambientale “downunder”: carbone, carbone e ancora carbone.
Dopo anni di dispute, ricorsi, petizioni, proteste e nonostante la creazione di decine di comitati, sia indigeni che “bianchi”, il Mackay Conservation Group in testa, che hanno manifestato contro, il 16 ottobre scorso il ministro federale dell’Ambiente, Greg Hunt, ha dato il via libera ai lavori per la realizzazione del polo minerario più esteso sotto la Croce del Sud, il Mackay Carmichael Coal Mine Project, del valore complessivo di 16 miliardi di dollari, che prevede per l’esportazione del minerale fossile, dopo la necessaria ristrutturazione, l’utilizzo dei terminal di Hay Point, dirimpetto alla barriera corallina e la costruzione ex-novo di una linea ferroviaria lunga 190 chilometri che colleghi la miniera a quella già esistente che si stende fino alla costa dell’oceano.
Hunt si è premurato di informare l’opinione pubblica che ben 36 sono i criteri ambientali strettissimi a cui la ditta titolare del progetto, l’indiana Adani, è stata sottoposta, specificando che in qualunque momento, in presenza di qualunque violazione anche di uno solo di essi, il permesso sarebbe sospeso ed eventualmente revocato.
Intanto i lavori stanno per iniziare: abbiamo detto della linea ferroviaria e del terminal portuale, proprietà di una joint-venture tra BHP Billiton e Mitsubishi, che rivedremo presto. Ma per dare l’idea dell’estensione del bacino minerario, basti pensare che la miniera sarà lunga, per fare un parallelo ligure, da Genova a Sestri Levante e occuperà una superficie pari a 500 chilometri quadrati, la metà della provincia di Imperia. A pieno regime la miniera produrrà sessanta milioni di tonnellate di carbone annuo, la maggior parte del quale verrà esportato in India.
L’ultima notizia in ordine di tempo (è di poche ore fa) è che il Queensland Coordinator-General (il direttore generale alle Infrastrutture), su pressione della Adani, ha proposto di eliminare il Native Title - che attesta la proprietà del suolo alla popolazione indigena - da una parte dell’area designata per i lavori. Questo perché l’azienda indiana intenderebbe costruire su essa un aereoporto, una centrale termoelettrica e gli alloggiamenti e servizi per le migliaia di addetti ai lavori che verranno impiegati.
Ed ora, in chiusura, presentiamo Jeyakumar Janakaraj, il direttore del futuro polo minerario. Forse il lettore ricorda che l’anno scorso la KCM di Lusaka, braccio operativo della indo-britannica Vedanta Resources, fu trascinata di fronte alla High Court di Londra da una class action per rispondere del disastro ambientale causato in Zambia dalla miniera di rame a cielo aperto di Chingola, nel periodo che va dal 2004 al 2014, appunto. La miniera, inquinando con i suoi scarichi il fiume Kafue, ha privato di acqua potabile e di cibo circa il 40% della popolazione nazionale. Fino al 2013 il direttore dei lavori in Zambia era quel Janakaraj che ora dirige i lavori in Australia.
Quanto all’Adani, lo abbiamo accennato, utilizzerà per il carico sulle navi gli impianti della BHP Billiton, che risulta essere titolare delle dighe brasiliane che letteralmente sono esplose nei giorni scorsi nella regione brasiliana del Minas Gerais, provocando il più grande disastro ecologico della storia del paese sudamericano.
Insomma, tutta gente che ci tiene veramente alla conservazione del Pianeta!

Thursday, December 10, 2015

TRADOTTI

Freudian projections


I have told him and as the proverb recite, man warned half saved…etc!
But he denied. He went through that kind of experience – he said - he previously smashed his face against them and he knew what that meant and many other nice stories that I eventually believed, calming that bit of  blame, or was envy?, that I felt for him.
Then for at least six months never seen him again: you know when one lives in a town too big, do you?
The other day at lunch time, sick of the left over warmed in the microwave, I decided to get down and buy myself a nice plate of  “al dente” spaghetti with fresh clams. In these cases the place is a must: Pipino Gautier! I get in and Pipino, the face of a little aged child, impeccable pinstriped suite and last fashion spectacles on the point of his nose, welcomes me and get me a table with his usual friendliness.
I look around me: same managers –  with or without accommodating personal assistant, who with the occasional commercial partner, a few snob ladies from the Northern suburbs of the town, a table of German turists and, in onwe word, no one to start a conversation with.
Pipino welcome his patronage and get them their tables: in one of his passages, stops briefly at my table and take a sip of Riesling from the glass that as usual I made filled for him.
A grin of pleasure for the wine and then with his wonderful Neapolitan accent he tells me:
- Here is quiet, guagliò! When you have finished we take a stroll and smoke a cigarette.
I nod in agreement and watch him getting away while I get again overwhelmed by the sensations that my taste buds are offering me.
Is nice the Circular Quay when is sunny, relaxed people walking up and down, the beggars, the street artists performing, couples in love, children.
We talk music, Pipino and I, art, gastronomy and sometime sport or beautiful women.
We are nearby the overseas terminal when my eyes are caught by a figure crouched on the ground, ruffled hairs, long beard, scruffy and dirty clothes and a piece of cardboard with a block capitals word, HELP, on it.
A child throw a coin and the person raise for a short moment his face to thank. A moment long enough for me to recognize in that person my friend Dante Sgranò. I instinctively move a step toward him but I immediately feel Pipino’s hand tighten up my elbow and holding me back:
- Where do you want to go? Stay here and pretend you haven’t seen him: you would embarrass him. Let’s go and I’ll tell you – he whispers confidentially my escort.
We pass by the terminal and stop at the Ocean Club for a coffee:
- What happened? How he reduced himself this way? – I ask.
- E che ne saccio*,  I don’t know, dear Guglielmo! There are rumours that was a woman -  he drops there with nonchalance.
- Nooo, don’t tell me - I falter in disbelief – perhaps that lady with whom I saw him playing the latin lover, Australian, married…that..what’s her name?...well he use to call her Velvet, yes Velvet.
- You are right, that one – Pipino confirms.
- He use to go around – he starts to tell – saying that he was still in love with his wife but that now, well, that he didn’t fancy her anymore. One day he poped in the restaurant and introduced me the lady. She was elegant in her Prince of Wales suit, the blond hairs well dressed, witty and clear eyes, a cheeky smile, high heels, nervous legs. He introduced her as a friend but obviously, after what I heard from him about her – anyway he dropped the word “friend”leaving to me the interpretation of it.
- And then what happened? – I insist.
- Look Gugliè, we all told him that he seemed too much hooked with the woman, considering he had family. He was laughing and couldn’t care less.
Things must have developed and one day he rented a flat in Lane Cove and went to  live by himself because – so he said last time I saw him – he wanted back his freedom - he ends with disbelief on his face.
- Yes, sure, freedom back when you’re forty plus and with family on your shoulder – I reply
- it is not everything – he continues – since one of his friends told me the rest of the story. The affair was going ahead and they would show freely publicly and were making projects of moving together. But the devil must have put his tail fell seriously sick and her, driven by a sense of guilty or the renewed awareness of the solidity of the feeling for her husband, she dumped dante and went back to her husband – he concludes widening his arms mimicking impotence.
- Al right, she dumped him, he gamble his family by darts and lost but c’mon reduce oneself to beg for charity, with the position he was in – I reply in disbelief.
- Yes my dear, one shouldn’t play up with feelings! Chillo faciva ‘o guappo* but he got basted! That means that he couldn’t handle all his guapparia*! He found himself alone, he was the only responsible and he must have lost the plot – he guess my friend.
- After two or three stupid things he did at work, they dumped him as well; there’s rumours that he tried to go back home but his wife refused and in conclusion, I don’t know exactly how things went but on the Anzac day evening, at Australia Square, he got drunk and made a scene including strip tease, swim in the fountain and final cry when the police arrived topick him up.
- They look him up for more than a month at Rozelle, in Psychiatry, with tremendous nervous breakdowns kept down with psychotropic drugs. Now, it has been a couple of weeks, I see him everyday there, the hat at his feet asking for some coins to the strollers – he concludes sad.
- Al right but what can we do for him – I ask feeling uncomforted when I think about Dante there, on the ground.
I’m already doing something – answers Pipino – secretly for the director of the St. Vincent de Paul comes to eat at my restaurant and we found for him a sleeping bed. You guaglio, that short hairs brunette, cheeky face, petite but well built, leave her alone for there’s already a number of people gossiping that you having an affair with her. Be careful, you too you have family – he seriously warns me.

- Lets go Pipino, otherwise I’ll be late at work – I reply casting my eyes down to hide the discomfort and increasing my walking pace in the office direction.  

Tuesday, December 8, 2015

MAI PUBBLICATI - NEVER PUBLISHED

La liberazione di Pinochet

La FILEF, Federaz. Italiana Lavoratori Emigrati e Famiglie, unisce il proprio sdegno a quello generale suscitato dalla scandalosa decisione del ministro  degli interni  britannico Jack Straw, di non autorizzare l'estradizione in Spagna dell'ex-dittatore cileno generale Augusto Pinochet.
Pinochet è troppo malato per essere estradato in un altro paese e per essere processato, questa la motivazione ufficiale.
Una decisione dettata più da esigenze di realpolitik e di mercato che non da motivi umanitari, come è stato detto.
Una decisione avallata se non addirittura caldeggiata da coloro che, per differenti motivi, hanno sempre osteggiato l'ipotesi che l'ex-dittatore fosse giudicato da un tribunale: dal primo ministro spagnolo Aznar (la Spagna ha forti interessi economici in Cile), al Vaticano e al suo segretario di stato, il cardinal Sodano che molto si è dato da fare per tirare fuori dai guai il suo amico di quando fu nunzio in Cile, passando per la signora Thatcher che si è instancabilmente battuta per la liberazione del compagno di tè, guerre (come quella delle Falklands) e affari legati alla vendita di armi e concludendo con le patetiche reazioni del governo di Eduardo Frei che ha passato i 17 mesi trascorsi dall'arresto di Pinochet a spremersi in una difesa dell'ex-dittatore oltre i limiti della decenza, anziché  ringraziare la giustizia spagnola e inglese che aveva fatto quel che lui e i suoi predecessori non erano stati capaci di fare in dieci anni di democrazia.
Anche in Italia, pur contandosi almeno sette cittadini italiani torturati ed uccisi durante il regime Pinochet, non c'è stata nessuna reazione ufficiale del governo. 
A questo punto, più che le dichiarazioni del neo primo ministro cileno Ricardo Lagos in cui si promettono improbabili processi contro Pinochet (che gode di un patto - negato ma reale - di impunità per se stesso e per i suoi uomini in cambio di una tranquilla transizione democratica in Cile) è doveroso, a nostro avviso, condannare il fatto che ancora una volta una decisione così importante sia stata presa da un politico e non da un tribunale. Non v'è dubbio, infatti, che la decisione di rilasciare Augusto Pinochet sulla base delle sue condizioni di salute avrebbe dovuto essere presa da un tribunale.
Ma si vuole anche sottolineare come il caso Pinochet, pur nella sua amara conclusione, ha almeno incrinato la tradizionale impunità che spettava fino a ieri a coloro che cosi' pesantemente hanno violato e violano i più elementari diritti umani.
La constatazione che ci sono voluti mesi prima di spingere la Gran Bretagna (e con lei l'Europa) a rispedire al mittente l'ex-dittatore avvalora le dichiarazioni di Amnesty International secondo cui il caso Pinochet è stato "il precedente più importante in materia di diritti umani dai tempi del processo di Norimberga" e che quindi esso ha contribuito enormemente a far si che una nuova legislazione sia venuta in qualche modo alla luce. La tortura è stata riconosciuta come un crimine internazionale e come tale impone agli stati di rispondere ad eventuali richieste di arresto e di estradizione da parte di altri stati. I dittatori non potranno più sperare sull'impunità per i crimini che hanno commesso e che sono stati riconosciuti come crimini punibili in qualunque stato.


       marzo 2000                                                                                                     F.I.L.E.F. - Sydney

Friday, December 4, 2015

MAI PUBBLICATI - NEVER PUBLISHED

The Cross and the Sword  
The Templars have always been surrounded by legends and mystery.
Official history has been paralleled by different tales, sometime supported by historical facts but often just the result of galloping fantasies.
Disciplines such as Esotericism, Magic, Alchemy and Free Masonry which are characterized by secrecy and usually reserved to a select few, have been frequently matched with the monks-soldiers: why?  
The militia Christi was created in 1118 by Hugues de Payns to defend Jerusalem and to ensure protection to the pilgrims visiting The Holy Land. 
They were called milites templi or Templars because Baldwin ll, King of Jerusalem, accepted their services and assigned them the Al-Aqsa Mosque, thought to be on the exact location of legendary "Templum Salomonis".
Thanks to Bernard de Clairvaux (St Bernard), in 1128 Hugues de Payns obtained the approval of the Church and the Templars were recognized as an Order.
Rapidly, due to the Pope's protection and to the authorities' grants, the Order saw a fast growth and in a few decades it became an international power structure which prospered for nearly two centuries. It included an army, a fleet, a logistic net throughout Europe and the Middle East as well as a wealthy banking system.
The enormous political and financial power achieved by the Templars, the envy it created and the greed of Philip the Fair, were the reasons for their destruction.

The King of France owed the Order considerable loans: when in 1305 his sponsored-Pope was elected, he felt secure enough to launch his campaign against the Templars to take their treasure. He used the only crime which allowed a king to confiscate properties, heresy.
On October 13, 1307 all Templars in France were arrested: under torture most of them confessed apostasy, devil worship, idolatry and systematic homosexuality.       Many of them were publicly burned, other spent the rest of their lives in a jail or joined others religious organization or simply disappeared and by 1314 the Order was suppressed all around Europe.
The number of stories and myths has considerably grown since and following are some of the most suggestive ones.
In 1314 Jacques de Molay, the last Master of Temple, minutes before burning at the stake, supposedly set a curse upon his prosecutors. Within the end of the year both the Pope and Philip the Fair died.
Some stories are related to the allegations on which the trial was based: at their initiations they supposedly spat on the cross, denied Christ, idolized a bearded head called Baphomet, exchanged kisses on their lower back and promised to relieve all sexual desires with their brothers.
Despite these confessions, which arose out of tortures, it is hard to understand how such powerful, proud and well trained knights were arrested without opposing any resistences.
According to Gauthier Walther's Cavalry and the secret aspects of History, the Templars accepted the persecution to allow a few of them to carry on (thanks to their familiarity with enormous fonts of power), with their plan to conquest the entire world within the year 2000.
These fonts of power were the knowledge and wisdom brought back from the East. These were symbolized by a circle, the shape of Templar churches, which later became a pivotal of Freemasonry mythology.
A mythology built on secrecy, initiations and rites which survived over the centuries and spread all over Europe. Sometimes it generated tragic consequences: in 1994 in Switzerland and Canada all members of the Order of the Temple of  the Sun,
self-proclaimed New Templars and lead by Luc Jouret, committed suicide or were killed in a mass rite of initiation to a new life.
According to the Hermetism philosopher P.V.Piobb, Nostradamus' prophecies were just a cryptic list of suggestions left by the Templars to those descendants able to decrypt, understand and finally obey them.
To decrypt is also the mystery of La Rochelle, a little fishing village on the Atlantic Gulf of Guascogne in France, which was turned by the Knights into an important, well-protected port where seven of their main commercial roads met. One of the most intriguing theories is they used it, secretly, as a landing-stage to sail to America.  
In his book The Sword and the Grail, Andrew Sinclair has proposed a slightly new myth around those Templars who supposedly escaped from persecution recovering in Scotland and taking with them their treasure.
Here they helped Robert Bruce in his successful war against England and they founded and sustained the St. Clair (Sinclair) family which was later linked with Freemasonry.
Sinclair assumed they also sailed to North America where they founded an unsuccessful colony. As it died out, instead of sailing back to Europe with the treasure, they decided to hide it.
 For this purpose they built the complex of "Money Pit" on Oak Island (New Scotland) and they marked the site using arcane symbolism involving rocks laid out in a cross shape.
But the most fascinating myth concerning the milites Templi is their involvement with the  legend of The Holy Grail. 
The legend says it was the cup used by Jesus Christ in the Last Supper and brought by Joseph of Arimathaea to Britain where later King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table began the Quest.
Within the 12th and 13th centuries, while Templars saw their fortunes at their heights, literature played an important role in presenting them as guardianship of the Graal. In his poem Parzifal (1220) Wolfram von Eschenbach attempted to tell the Grail was still around while he was writing, and guarded by the Knights.
The search of the Grail (whatever it might be) is endless. Is it really a miraculous cup or, according to generations of alchemist, a prodigious stone which enables those who use it to turn any metal into gold?
It is certainly easier to believe it symbolizes the eternal search of how perfectible humans are and under this point of view and considering their role in Medieval history the Templar Knights can be considered the guardians of the Holy Grail.



  

Monday, November 30, 2015

MAI PUBBLICATI - NEVER PUBLISHED

Spett.le Il Globo/La Fiamma
Signor Capo redattore con gentile richiesta di pubblicazione sulla rubrica “Lettere al Direttore” dell’edizione del Mercoledi


Caro Randazzo,
Sono uno di quei marxisti rottamati che nelle ultime ore stanno emergendo con la semplicistica teoria che gli americani gli attentati terroristici se li vanno a cercare con il lanternino.
Mi permetto di farle notare che, per restare in ambito italiano, uno di quei rottami è, ad esempio, Dario Fo, tanto per fare un nome.
Volendo poi scendere nello specifico, onestamente non credo che questa testata giornalistica mi concederebbe lo spazio necessario ad elencare tutte quelle volte in cui, nel corso degli ultimi 56 anni cioè dalla fine del secondo conflitto mondiale, il governo degli Stati Uniti si è trovato coinvolto in situazioni (si noti bene, mai in territorio statunitense) che sono poi sfociate in guerre, civili e non, attentati, rappresaglie, pulizie etniche e chi più ne ha, più ne metta.
No, caro Randazzo, qui non stiamo facendo l’elogio al terrorista. Stiamo solo cercando di dire che quando si amministra il potere facendo prevalentemente uso della forza, militare o finanziaria o entrambe, questi sono i risultati che si ottengono. Stiamo dicendo che, pur nella nostra impotenza di accademici ciarlatani, siamo coscienti che il coraggio e la forza di una nazione vincente, non si dimostrano bombardando all’uranio i bambini serbi o quelli iracheni. O tranciando i cavi della funivia, o abbattendo per sbaglio aerei civili, e la smetto o l’elenco sarebbe ancora molto lungo.   
Non servono scudi stellari e multinazionali dell’oppressione e dello sfruttamento, per pacificare il mondo. Servono decisioni politiche che tengano conto del parere di tutte le parti in causa, non solo di quella dell’alleato di turno; servono decisioni economiche non dettate da meri interessi di quella o quell’altra lobby, ma dalle effettive esigenze che si vengono a creare nelle diverse zone d’intervento.
Lo sappiamo noi, caro Randazzo, e lo sa anche lei che nè dei marxisti rottamati, nè dei ciarlatani accademici fa parte, perchè lei è un opinionista, cioè un uomo dei media.
Ed a questo proposito, cioè dei media e del loro repentino cambiamento di opinione, come lei lo chiama, esso ha, a mio modesto avviso, due spiegazioni. La prima è che l’orrore da tutti provato inizialmente per la drammaticità di quelle scene e la condanna per il gesto terroristico seguitane, non hanno cancellato e non potevano cancellare le argomentazioni a cui si accennava precedentemente. La seconda spiegazione consiste nel fatto che la stragrande maggioranza degli opinionisti nel mondo, qualunque sia l’appartenenza culturale e politica della testata per cui scrivono, non hanno il privilegio che lei invece ha: quello di non avere concorrenti sulla piazza.
Cordiali saluti.

Danilo Sidari (Un marxista rottamato)

* lettera indirizzata al Dr. Nino Randazzo, capo redattore del quotidiano in lingua italiana Il Globo (Melbourne) a seguito di un suo editoriale pubblicato qualche giorno dopo l'attentato terroristico alle Torri Gemelle di New York dell'11 settembre 2001 (n.d.r.) 

Wednesday, November 25, 2015

MAI PUBBLICATI - NEVER PUBLISHED

                                   OPUS MUSIVUM 

In an experiment testing the more macabre dimension of tourism, last year a German travel organization began offering a package including excursions to sites made famous solely by the Sicilian Mafia’s killing someone there.

While for some it has proved to be a popular extension, there are those who would prefer less of the macabre whilst travelling! Happily, Sicily also happens to offer a rich blend of historical, cultural, traditional and gastronomical delights! With  Piazza Armerina, a little town located in the middle, the focal point of your stay Sicily suddenly becomes a tourist destination not to be missed by even the most sedate traveller!

Piazza Armerina  is an ancient settlement strategically located on top of a hill which dominates the surrounding landscape and from which you can absorbe a breathtaking  panorama surrounded by luscious vegetation. Characterized by a wealth of archeological evidence, Piazza Armerina is believed to have been originally founded by a Beotian tribe called Plateei around 5th century B.C., during which its ancient name was Plutia.

As you find a quiet spot to contemplate the countryside you cannot help but be overwhelmed by a sense of the countless battles and conquests this hill as witnessed, from long forgotten tussles between warring tribesmen to the transitions between Roman settlements and Muslim domination.

After a final liberation by Count Roger The Norman in 1060, after which many of his soldiers settled around the area permanently, in an attempt to bring political stability to the region, the whole of Plutia was destroyed only one century later by King William II Malo as  revenge for its rebellion against the Norman's rules.

 

In 1163 the town was rebuilt and called Piazza Armerina. Since, it has still played an important strategic role within the political and military scenarios of Svevian, French and Spanish rule in Sicily. As a result of being a constant centre of power struggles in the region, Piazza Armerina is now characterized by a totally unique blend of different styles and historical traditions.

The architectural stucture is predominantly medieval but through the centuries the town has been enriched with magnificent Renaissance and Baroque buildings. A stroll down the passiata (promenade) around the stone-paved narrow streets offers impressive views of several grand monuments to these changing times. The church of St. John of Rodi sits far more comfortably near the Norman Castle today than a thousand years ago, while the shift out of the Medieval age is well presented in churches like St. Peter, St. John and the Jesuit College. A lot of the privately owned houses display more of the typical Baroque style.

Sounds, colours and smells are typically Mediterranean and the local people’s hospitality makes you feel "interactive" with the culture, particularly during festive occasions such as the Palio dei Normanni, held on the 13th and 14th of August. This festival commemorates the liberation from Muslim rule by the Normans.

Both days the local people are perfectly dressed in medieval costumes. The first day they reenact the arrival of Count Roger and his troops in town and the keys of the city are symbolically offered to him. The next day in an open area (usually the soccer field) the Palio or Quintana takes place: the cavalry teams representing the four ancient neighbourhoods of Plutia, challenge each other in three different games. The winners receive from Count Roger a copy of the precious Bizantine flag representing Our Lady of Victory. It is a feast of colours, traditions, dances and a warm welcome for every visitor.

While visiting the historical monuments, those who love shopping can choose from a wide range of shops offering fashions and high quality Sicilian goods as well as souvenirs and local products.
Such an exciting walk, enriched by particular herb fragrances such as garlic, rosemary and basil floating in the air, usually works as a powerful apetizer.
What about a menu of four different choices of local dishes ranging from $18 to $30? Fusilli alla castellana or Cavati alla Turiddu as entree, followed by Falsomagro alla siciliana or Grigliata mista as main course, and a delicious Cannolo di ricotta as dessert, all washed down by a nice bottle of Corvo di Salaparuta or Donna Fugata red wines?
Surrounded by luscious vegetation is Park Hotel "Paradiso" where, with your delicious meal, you can enjoy two swimming pools, tennis court or accompanied bush walks. You could also ask to visit their farm, L'antica stazione, where you can taste fresh made dairies such as ricotta and cheese, vegetables, homemade wine and bread while your kids have fun at Bambinopoli, a huge playground which is part of the complex.
Luxury accommodation is available at Park Hotel in completely renovated rooms for $140 d/b with ensuite including breakfast (Ph. 39 0935 680841, Fax 39 0935 684908).
After you have delighted your tastebuds, it's now time to do the same with your sight.
Where? At "Villa Romana del Casale", a magnificent building dated from the Imperial Roman age which features its internationally known mosaics. A short walk on a narrow stone-paved road, cutting through hilly meadows, with fragrant and colourful wild flowers, will bring you to the Villa.
The complex of buildings is believed to have been built by Emperor Massimiano (Fourth century A.D.) and used in his times of leisure, such as resting from the African campaign, hunting etc.
Set on three terraced levels, it offered spectacularly landscaped private surroundings for the imperial family and their guests as well as all the amenities suited to nobility includind floor decorations and wall paintings.
You can still see how water was gathered by two aqueducts into a huge tank, where it was partly warmed up by ovens to supply baths while the steam was used for the sauna. You'll see a gymnasium with related dressing and massage rooms, inside and outside lavatories, several dining rooms, the kitchen, indoor and outdoor entertainment and meeting areas and two sites dedicated to the cult of Venus and Lari.
Most floors are paved by countless little tesserae (tiles) which compose more then 40 mosaics, supposedly created by African artists, which tell realistically about life under Massimiano. The word mosaic derives from the Greek "work worthy of the Muses", the Latin Opus Musivum and consists of composing a drawing using small tiles in stone, terra-cotta or glass fixed on cement or mastic layer.
It is almost universally agreed that these mosaics represent one of the highest, spontaneous and striking expressions of the art. Exposed to light they produce an incomparable light irradiation and they appear as if they are the source of that irradiation.
The modern structure built to protect the mosaics at Villa Romana isn't particularly aesthetic, but once you're underneath it you don't mind for long!
Ironically, these masterworks are only so well conserved thanks to a landslide which in 1160 knocked the building down, covered it by mud and preserved it from further destruction until archeological excavations began around 1880.  According to Prof. G.V. Gentili, who entirely brought to light the ruins, the paved floors extending for 3500 sq.m. are the biggest ever found evidence of African mosaic art.
The scenes represented are mostly about everyday life, myths, hunting and games.
You'll find it hard to decide which is your favorite one but Four Seasons, Big Hunting, Little Hunting, Chariots Race, Ten Bikini Girls and Kiss are probably the most impressive.
Visiting Villa Romana del Casale is a 1700 year old historical immersion from which you'll reemerge with the indelible souvenir of a unique experience and an inspiring glimpse into the volatile past of this wondrous regions.
Then, if you feel like it, you can always take your car and drive to a couple of nearby Mafia hit sites…


Qantas flies to Rome three times weekly on Monday,Wednesday and Friday (Ph.131211). Alitalia operates daily connections to Palermo and Catania. From there take the Motorway A 19 (Palermo-Catania or viceversa) and exit at Piazza Armerina.





A TALE OF PASSPORT AND KNIFE



- Name?
- Ruggero.
- Surname?
- Piscitelli.
- Born at?
- Guardia Sanframondi, province of Benevento in Italy
- When?
- I was born on the 10th of March 1936.
- Profession?
- I am a brick layer but I retired in 2001.
- So Mr. Piscitelli, you are accused of having killed on the Friday night the 17th of December 2004 you spouse Ms Consuelo Barque married Piscitelli, stabbing her in various part of her body with seventeen slashes given with a kitchen knife. The murder occurred in your house, located at 470 of the Macquarie Road in Fairfield. What you have to say about that?
- It is true, your honor!
The man suddenly cast down his head and cover his face with his hands: with an uncontrollable movement his shoulders are shaken by sighs.
When he finally manage to get back in control of himself, with his right hand dries up furtively two tears which slipped down his unshaved cheeks, lift back up his head and whispers with trembling voice:
- What I have to say, your honor, is that…is that I…I was in love with her!
- But if you felt such a feeling, how could you possibly act in such a reged way?
- She was cheating on me, your honor, and as I said I was in love with her and I couldn’t cope any longer with those humiliations. She was the last spark of feeling in my life.
- Would you like to tell us about facts, please?
- That’s fine I will tell you facts but I have to tell the whole story, from the beginning, to try to explain, to supply you with a reason.
- That’s fine, Mr. Piscitelli, tell everything from the beginning but stick with facts.
- Alright than! It was an October night of 2001. I was retired for only six months and, you know, the first times are hard without the routine of work, one feels useless, it’s boring, one think about old age, you know, yes I was a little depress.
- Stick with facts I asked.
- I’ll get to facts, your honor, I’ll get there! That night I was feeling a little better: I shaved and took a shower after at least three days. And I wore new pants and a fresh ironed shirt. I wanted to go out, breath some fresh air, perhaps eat an oriental meal e drink a couple of glasses of wine. Must have been the Spring season, I don’t know! I decided to go at Club Marconi because along with the food and the drinks, being a Friday, I could also dance a bit. In conclusion, you honor, I wanted to distract myself, have some fun.
- Go ahead Mr. Piscitelli.
- I then dined at the club’s restaurant and then I went at the bar for a coffee and a sambuca. As usual a group of friends and old acquaintances of a life of migration, fellows from my same hometown, members of the regional association, former colleagues, Communist and Christian democrats, football supporters was quickly formed and the same old animated conversation began.
Shortly after the orchestra has started to play and without hesitation I cheered everybody and made my way up the stairs to the ballroom.
The ballroom was already getting crowded and already a few couples were dancing on the shiny timber floor.
There still were free tables but I choose to stand and sip my sambuca. I was staring around looking for a woman I already made acquaintance to invite for a dance when I saw her.
Petite but well shaped, straight black hairs on her shoulder, black eyes with oriental shape, little flat nose pointing up, she looked at me and then smiled.
I interpreted as an encouragement so I approached and invited her for a dance. She accepted and we danced for nearly half an hour non stop before to proceed to the bar for a drink and then to a quiet table for a chat.
We introduced each other and began to talk about ourselves. She said that she was 28 years old, she was from Manila, Philippines and that she survived famine and prostitution  over there escaping to Australia where unfortunately she entered with a temporary visa which would expire soon and where she could only work casual and in black, causing her much struggle to survive.
I told her about my life of work, of my financial tranquility, of my loneliness, of the frustration of feeling still enough strong and yet being treated as an old man.
There was a feeling of reciprocal comprehension and complicity: we could understand each other, we could express sympathy, we were trying to make each other smile, to relieve the melancholy. Then she put her hand in my hand and kept it there for a brief – but very long moment.
I was a little anxious, for long time I was going out only for my shopping and now, at the first occasion was happening to me to meet a person, a woman who seemed to really understand me.
- Be more concise, Mr. Piscitelli, do not tell us about specific of little importance!
- They are important, you honor: one doesn’t kill the woman he loves just because she overcooked the spaghetti!
- At home I had a little room which I used as storage and after having pondered for the rest of the night, before to leave I decided to offer her hospitality as you would offer to a friend. Consuelo thanked me with a long hug and kissed my cheeks wetting them with her tears of gratefulness. So she moved in and after a couple of weeks of friendly cohabitation, one night I saw her walking in the lounge room dressed with little clothes and with a inviting grin on her face even for a man like me that long passed his goliardic age. And it happened, your honor, it happened what…well, we loved each other on the couch. The story went on that way for a while and after a couple of months we decided to get married. We long talked about before and we verbally found an agreement. Only a silly guy wouldn’t take in account the age difference: sixty five myself, twenty eight her: thirty seven years are not peanuts, you honor!
And so we stipulated a pact: a deal for which in change of her tender friendship, of her company in my old age, myself, Australian citizen, I would have married her allowing her to acquire the citizenship. With the citizenship she would have left behind all struggles that so far she had to face, find a decent job, start a new life. Then after my departure and as a legitimate spouse, she would have inherited everything and settle once and for all.
- Please Mr. Piscitelli, do not stretch your story too much!
- I’m sorry, you honor, is the pain I carry inside: I need to talk, I need to release it or I’ll get crazy.
- Sure, sure I understand but today I have two more interrogations in agenda and I’m inviting you to be the more concise possible.
- The first fifteen months of marriage were fantastic. As I said I didn’t have any financial problem and beside she got a job at a Philippine company based in Sydney so we were carrying out with a satisfactorily life: movie night every Wednesday, dinner and dance Friday and Saturday night, some parties at friends places, some other at our place, holidays alternatively in the Philippines or in Italy, nothing to complain about.
As for our intimacy, well, my performances could not equal those of a thirty years old man but despite I wasn’t used to have a woman around the house I managed to fill the gap with gentleness, you know, a little gift, a bunch of flowers, a nice sentence, a compliment.
- One night, it would have been April 2003, she rang home to tell me that she was late because the boss asked her without advice to stay longer to finish a few letters. I felt a little upset, a little lonely and sad but soon after, while dining on my own, these sensations began to fade and when I finally sat on the lounge room to watch a tv show while waiting her I ended up feeling silly for my reaction and I felt happy for her capacity to be appreciated at work, for her justified ambition.
- But the situation started to occur more and more frequently and even worse I started to notice a intangible cold toward me, a thin lack of interest for our matters, some sort of  lack of care for the house and in the same time I could see her putting more and more care on her outfit, dresses, shoes, make up, hair dressing and spend more and more time in the morning to get ready to go to work.
- The letters of the last minute were alternatively replaced, every now and then at the beginning, by the nights she would spend out with her Philippine girlfriends. And it finally arrived the night, a cold August night, she got back home very late, with her overcoat crumpled, the make up a little ruined, and on her face the signs of a fight that has left her tired but deeply satisfied. I remember that to my inquisitive look she reply with a smile which, I thought, wasn’t addressed to me.
- So, Mr. Piscitelli, what happened after?
- I  paid someone to spy her, your honor! Consuelo was seen going out from the parking of the building where she was working on a luxurious German car with the son of the general manager, a thirty five years old guy all muscles and hair gel. It was seven pm time when she would have usually returned home. A hour before she had rung me telling she had extra work to do and she would have came back at eight thirty.
- C’mon Mr. Piscitelli, tell us what happened that night?
- Your honor I would like to specify that night was the final consequence of a long list of fights and attempts to make peace again. She was uncompromising, she was available to live together to honour the deal and to save the appearances but in change she wanted to live her life otherwise, she said, she would have left and would ask to divorce. I was in love and feared to loose her, I was surrender,  sometime I was like a lost puppy, because now, aged sixty seven, to remain alone again was even more frightening than before.
- That night she came back as usual very late. Since waiting I had a couple of shots of sambuca I felt strong, I was sarcastic, aggressive and started to ask her ironically the reason of such a delay. She initially tried to divert the argument: we both knew were she had been, she said, and it was not the case to start a fight and wake up all the neighborhood. To my insistence she lost her coolness and started to answer with the same irony and sarcasm to my provocations and the discussion became soon a spiral of nasty words and offences, not repeatable, your honour!
- Please, repeat them, Mr. Piscitelli.
- I yelled her she was a whore, your honour, and a disgusting upstarter.
- And what your wife answered?
- My wife…
- Please, tell us.
- Consuelo said that she was tired of that kind of life and the next morning she would have left. She said I have to stop to believe she was feeling something for me, that she never loved me, she simply took the opportunity given. Who do I think I was to tell her what to do or not to do? Was I really convinced that a woman like her could be bought with a house in the popular suburbs, the Holden Commodore in the garage, the excursion at Jervis bay or the Saturday night dancing at Club Marconi? She said she was disgusted of my rounded belly, of my baldness, of my pathetic effort to make her feel desired.
- To those words I started to cry desperately begging her to not to leave me, to stay to have mercy for an old man.
She seemed to calm down, went in the bedroom and started to undress.
Than she came back in the lounge room - where I was desperately trying to recompose myself – wearing only light transparent cotton nightdress with no underwear and looked me with tenderness.
- I must admit, your honour, that to that look I regained hope. I thought that after all I could not expect to have her all for myself, considering her young age and that I had to learn to handle that situation if I didn’t want to loose her once and for all.
Consuelo sat and casted her head down but from time to time she looked at me with tenderness, with little smiles of sincere sympathy. Or, I should say, so it seemed to me…so I wanted to believe at all cost and that’s why I made the mistake to interpret those smiles, those looks as an attempt of make peace again and that nightdress as an implied invitation to share intimacy. I then stood up went in the kitchen and started to poor something to drink. She always liked vermouth so I got two glasses ready with ice, sliced the lemon with that knife, poured the Cinzano  went back and offered her the drink. She took it, took a good sip of it and smiled me back enigmatically.
At that point I was convinced about her intention, approached her, touched lightly her breast and tried to kiss her. Believe me, you honour, I didn’t want to kill her, I would give my life to give her back, I didn’t want to kill, I never even killed a fly. But when to my mute proposal her, for me unexpectedly, pushed me away and asked me if I really was convinced I could give her pleasure, in my mind the humiliation turned into regret and then rage and then hate and then, your honour, I don’t know. Doctors say is like a mental switch off. I don’t remember going back in the kitchen, picking the knife up, stubbing her, nor leaving the house and taking the car. None of the neighbours seemed to hear something, probably because used to hear loud voices, despite 1 pm was well gone.
I drove for hours, but don’t ask me where where I went because I don’t know: around the city, without a direction, hallucinated, absent. When eventually the fog left my brain, I recalled and the remorse became unbearable, I went back home and called the police. It’s all your honour.
The man cast his head down again and doesn’t move no more.
The Prosecutor takes some notes, close the folder in front of him informs Piscitelli’s  lawyer on the date of the trial and in the surreal silence of the little interrogations room of the Botany Bay jail, stands up and to his sign the armoured door opens. He walk trough it, looks for a brief moment to who just confessed his crime and with a vague expression of disbelief mixed with mock and then he walks away.




Monday, November 23, 2015

MAI PUBBLICATI - NEVER PUBLISHED


Da 'a me riva... (in morte di F. De Andrè)

Dicono che noi Liguri siamo gente poco propensa ad esternare i propri sentimenti, a comunicarli, a dividerli con gli altri. Forse in parte è vero!
Sarà la millenaria, ciclopica fatica per strappare alle montagne un fazzoletto di terra da coltivare; sarà quel sentimento di amore-odio che nutriamo nei confronti del mare, fonte di sussistenza e causa di morte.
Sta di fatto che di fronte alla fatica di vivere, le parole servono a poco. E di fronte allo scempio della morte, anche meno.
Fabrizio De Andrè ci ha lasciati.
Della sua arte, del suo ruolo in seno al fenomeno culturale della canzone d'autore, si è detto tutto ciò che c'era da dire.
Sul fatto che avesse dato voce, attraverso la sua poesia in musica, a tutti coloro che, per un verso o per l'altro, vivono ai margini della società, sono stati versati fiumi di inchiostro.
Sulla riscoperta, la rielaborazione, l'uso del dialetto genovese e più in generale di quelle musicalità tipicamente mediterranee, si sono scomodati fior di letterati, musicisti, filosofi e poeti.
Resta solo una piccola nicchia per un commosso saluto da parte di chi, lontano da Genova, lontano dai funerali di massa, lontano dalle dichiarazioni di amici, colleghi, collaboratori, autorità pubbliche e immancabili sciacalli, non ha potuto fare altro che riascoltare ancora una volta Creuza de ma, commuovendosi nel risentire le voci familiari del mercato del pesce di P.zza Cavour.  
Addio De Andrè e grazie per aver dato una voce anche a chi, come noi expat, di parole ne ha sempre potuto spendere poche, impegnati com'eravamo a combattere l'intolleranza da una parte e la nostalgia dall'altra. Sarà anche perché in Australia si "mugugna" poco e soprattutto non ci si "incazza" mai! In compenso si scrivono molte "letters of complaints".

         

MAI PUBBLICATI - NEVER PUBLISHED

C'è un po' di materiale dei vecchi tempi che è rimasto nel cassetto. Risale agli inizi, alla Scuola di Giornalismo presso l'Australian Academy of Journalism (1996-1997). Scrivevo in inglese e in italiano per i media locali ma quale che fosse l'idioma usato, alcuni miei articoli non furono mai considerati per la pubblicazione. Eccoli.



THE MAGIC SWAMP                                                                                          
The river Rhone, swollen by the melting snows from the Alps Mountains, is flowing down roaring its powerful song. We left Arles half an hour ago driving down the D 35 highway on a beautiful sunny morning refreshed by the Mistral, the local western wind.
At Bac de Barcarin we cross the river on a little ferry (only two semi-trailers and 4 cars can be carried) anchored to a steel cable to beat the water flow. One of the truckies offers us a strong Gitanes cigarette while welcoming us with a boisterous "Bonjour, Italiano!"  
While we cross the river, our attention is caught by the blue horizon outlined by several white hills which, we'll find out, are raw salt piles.
We decide to stop for a quick visit at the salt-works of Salin de Giraud where we politely refuse a voluminous souvenir from the guy in charge of the factory's shop, a 50 kg bag of fine washed salt, enough for the rest of our lives. 
A few kilometers further west we begin to feel uncomfortable when the asphalt road becomes a narrow strip surrounded by water. Swamps are everywhere and we keep going as we know around here tides are not a problem.
While we go ahead an increasing number of flamingos attract our attention and finally,   in the middle of l'Etang de Fangassier, we find out why. The artificial isle of Fangassier is the nesting spot for some 13,000 pairs of flamingos which between April and June every year come to breed here.
It was created in 1973 by WWF France in co-operation with C.S.M.E., the largest French salt producer and owner of the land, pardon, the swamp, and Carrefour (Supermarket chain) which donated the Camargue-style cabin used by researchers as a bird observation post. 
At La Gacholle there's a superb view of the Lighthouse, but we're informed our route plan is useless. Rushing this morning we didn't notice it on the map but definitely the only way west to Les Saintes Maries de la Mer from here, is a pedestrian and cycle path.
We need to go back on the D 36 and drive around L'Etang de Vaccares, the National Park of Camargue's largest swamp.  
Well, let's go then. The next village is Salin de Badon, a little oasis of land surrounded by water. We drive through it heading a few kilometers North to La Capeliere, on the eastern shore of the swamp. Here we absorb the aquatic habitat atmosphere that introduces us to the legend of Camargue. The flights of ducks, flamingoes, seagulls and other wild coastal birds cross the sky above us so to safely enjoy the panorama we decide to wear a hat!
Unfortunately we've got to keep going if we want to have a chance to get a spot at Les Saintes Maries de la Mer where we can rest tonight. Today is May the 23rd and we can expect to find the little Mediterranean town packed for the ongoing European Gypsy reunion to celebrate their patroness Sarah-la-Kali, and the Saints Mary Jacobe and Mary Salome'.
On our way north we stop at Villeneuve, another enchanting little pearl on the water, where we decide to have lunch.
We check the blackboard in a cafe'-brasserie where the fragrance of Pastis is floating in the air and our palatial requests is satisfied by a delicious Mules Brasucado (mussels in special cumin sauce) followed by Aubergines au Gratin (crunchy Eggplant in tomato sauce baked in the oven) which perfectly matches a nice bottle of Languedoc wine.
We could also have chosen Terrain de Camargue (seafood and shellfish combination) or Anchoiade (fresh chunks of vegetables dipped in marinate of olive oil, garlic, herbs and anchovies) as entree.
Canarde aux figues (duck stuffed with figs and cooked in the oven) or Anguilles au fur (oven roasted eels) or Boullabaisse (soup with chunks of fish, seafood and shellfish) completed with a local goat's cheese and a bottle of Vin de Sable or Valle du Rhone.
What a feast!
The meal definitely regenerates us. A short black expresso does the rest.
We hit the road again. At Mejanes a miniature train can be caught for a ride around the lake in search of birdwatching spots and spectacular views.
The landscape now offers a view of acres of flat land where Les Mas, the local farms, are overwhelmed by a sea of golden wheat and sunflowers whose different shades of yellow is outlined on a clear blue sky. Here and there, over fenced properties, herds of black bulls and white horses graze quietly, raising their heads only to watch our car passing.
Approaching highway D 570, at Albaron, the traffic is busier. A number of caravans, RVs and trailers of the widest range of sizes and shapes proceeding south, begin to introduce us to the atmosphere of the pilgrimage of Sarah and the Saint Marys of the sea.
The legend says around AD 40 a little boat was launched from Palestine and banked at this site (Les Saintes Maries de la Mer). The refugees in the boat were the two Saints as well as Mary Magdalene, Lazarus and his two sisters, St. Maximinus and their servant Sarah.
The disciples wandered off but Mary Jacobe, Mary Salome' and Sarah remained, built an oratory and spread the Gospel until their death when they were buried here. Since then their tombstone has became a site of cult and pilgrimage.
Gypsies celebrate Sarah's annual return to the shores of the Mediterranean sea. The "Original Dark Wanderer" with her dark skin, her restless nature and her Egyptian origins present striking parallels to them. Although she was never formally canonized, Gypsies adopted her as their patron saint. The return is also a tribute to music and dance and an opportunity for engagements, weddings and baptisms.
Traffic is slowing down and allows us to catch little slices of nomadic life as we approach the little town on the coast. Alongside the road Gypsies and gadjes, the non-gypsy, are already enjoying a cultural mixture between two often-divided segments of society. We're getting closer to water again and we decide to have a rest at Pioch-Badet to take a look at the open air Tzigane Museum about the culture and traditions of this people travelling restlessly around Europe for centuries.
Finally we are in town and despite knowing the celebrations officially begin tomorrow,   the party is well under way. Guitars,  palma handclapping and the click of flamenco heels gives an exciting background to our search for a room. It's a Babylon of languages.
Everywhere merchants peddle their wares from their caravans' trunks while mysterious fortune-tellers dispense advice like tunes from a jukebox. On every corner and in many bistros someone is improvising spontaneous performances. 


No way to get a room (next time we will be planning earlier) but it's not a worry: a quick walk to the Tourist Office (Rue VanGogh 5, Ph. 04.90.97.82.55) and we find there are plenty of camping areas to pitch our tent. We choose one a couple of  kilometres from the town's center which  borders onto a wild outback area.
The wind doesn't help but eventually the tent is up and we're ready to plunge into the fiesta. There's heaps of caravans and trailers from which cooking fragrances are floating into the air. The neighborhood is ok and Paco, the owner of the huge caravan next-door invites us for the aperitif, a homemade Pastis.
Inevitably conversation turns to his nomadic lifestyle. The man, in his late 50's, chief of the family, big white moustache, boots and cowboy hat, talks about the various aspects of this restless way of living.
"Gypsy means to live constantly on the edge, temporarily hosted on the outskirts of towns lived in by people we don't relate much with. This festival is the only annual occasion where most of us gather together and which positively blends the two different cultures in a celebration of the sacred and the profane" he says.   
Several pairs of children's eyes are watching curiously while women dressed in colorful outfits cook deliciously smelling Paella. Pouring a second drink, Paco invites us for dinner and then turns the conversation to what is going to happen tomorrow.
Late in the afternoon the statue of Saint Sarah will emerge from the church and be escorted by the Guardians, the Camargue cowboys on their white horses, while local women will be dressed in the original costumes of les Arlesienne.
Ceremoniously relics will be carried through town followed by Gypsy clans marching together and singing "Long live Saint Sarah! Long live the Gypsy". Spectators line each side of the street and their "support" propels the procession towards the sea.
Once there all formalities are abandoned: Gypsies and gadje dash for the water in a collective symbolic baptism while the Guardians load the statue onto a boat for her benediction at sea.
Originality, colors, chaos, folklore, performances, music and dance continues until the next day, the 25th, when the effigies of St. Mary Salome' and St. Mary Jacobe are honored in the same fashion. The church is booked with weddings and baptisms, celebrated with a dramatic and elaborate gypsy flair.
"Once the festival is over, their business is finished and religious obligations fulfilled, the Gypsies may stay another day or two but the open road awaits them" Paco says.
Dinner has been fantastic and a nice bottle of Vin de Sable has accompanied our gastronomical indulgence. We go for a walk. 
It is a peaceful, enchanting evening. The Mistral has settled, replaced by a soft breeze which gently waves bonfire flames down at the camp.
The sound of a guitar carried by the breeze, recalls Spanish visions while all we have seen and heard today blends in an enchanting, magic atmosphere.
The burning star hidden behind the last visible headland inflames the sky with a pinky red Impressionist brush stroke. It gradually turns to a darker purple which will be eventually swallowed by the darkness.  
Nimbus slow down their eternal sky-race while the mists begin to rise and a late pink flamingo lands in its swamp. 
Although the darkness is advancing, over the swamp we catch a glimpse of white horses settling for their night.
Paco's gentle pat on our shoulder brings us back to reality. He is urging us to hurry or we'll be late for "The Gypsy Kings" and "Negrita" performances, downtown.
Walking away we stunningly realize that it's not a paperback romance: it's Camargue. 
 And tomorrow, la fiesta.  


Qantas flies to Paris three times weekly on Monday, Wednesday and Friday
(Ph. 131211). Air France operates daily connections to Marseilles and Nimes, (Ph. 02  9244 2100). The TGV (4 hours journey) and others trains for Arles departs from Paris, Gare de Lyon, regularly.