Matteo e il Tempio Maledetto (Matteo and the Temple of Doom)

Imagine you are a university professor, an archaeologist. And imagine you are on a work trip, in Indochina, let’s say to attend a conference.

Imagine now that while you are on a tuk-tuk stuck in the traffic, the tuk-tuk driver - a young guy with a New York Yankee hat who speaks with an impossible Southeast-Asian accent - gets all excited once he discovers you are an archaeologist, and insists to bring you to a place where his grandfather used to bring him when he was a kid. You are hesitant, but he insists so much that you finally give up and accept to go.

And after about one hour drive on a tiny and bumpy road that penetrates the jungle, accompanied by the unceasing creaking of the crickets, the deafening croak of the frogs, and by dozens of monkeys that jump from a tree to another above you - suddenly the jungle opens up a bit, everything becomes silent, the monkeys disappear, and you find yourself in front of the ruins of a gigantic temple of an unknown sect of an unknown civilization.

You jump out of the tuk-tuk excited by the discovery and run through the massive stones in search of a piece of evidence that could help you to understand which civilization could have lived there. But when you turn to call the tuk-tuk driver and ask for his help, the only thing you see is the abandoned tuk-tuk and the New York Yankee hat on the ground a few meters from the tuk-tuk.

An icy shudder runs through your back, and you suddenly feel the unpleasant feeling of being observed…

Welcome to Angkor…

La ville de Nathan Never

Bangkok. Une bruine drue. Grise. Chaude. Collante. Qui presque ne mouille pas, mais qui s’imprègne dans les vêtements. Dans les cheveux. Ou c'est peut-être le vapeur des kiosques de chaque coté des trottoirs. Odeur de poisson. Il se brouilla, se mélange. Gens dans la rue, ils mangent, ils marchent. Ils se bousculent. Des hommes en uniforme. Arrêtés de chaque coté. Ils observent. Et la circulation, silencieuse et ordonnée. Rouge. Vert. Rouge. Vert. Rouge.

Un grincement sur moi. Je regarde en haute. Le métro léger. La gens sur le passage clouté. Les gratte-ciels de verre et ciment. Couches qui se coupent et se superposent l’un l’autre. Et au fond le ciel violacé. Une ville verticale. À nivaux. Je baisse de nouveau le regard et j’avance. Sous ces couches. Au premier niveau.

Une jeune fille s’approche de moi. Une prostituée ? Je me sens tirer par un bras. Une vieillarde. Elle me parle. Dans que langue ? Je ne comprends pas. Je tache de m’en aller. Elle insiste. Elle grince des dents. Pourris. « Dangerous ». Je remercie, je fais une petite révérence. Je poursuis.

Moi, je suis déjà été ici dans ce lieu. Je croix. Il me semble. Je ne me rappelle pas. Peut-être dans un rêve ? Je me brouille… Je m’approche pour lire, mais les lettres prennent des formes que je ne reconnais pas. Je me tourne pour chercher une aide. Personne. Seulement de gens qui marche d'une façon désordonnée. Je continue à marcher.

Je laisse la rue principale. Je tourne a gauche et âpres a droit dans une ruelle secondaire. Les bruits de la circulation tout d’un coup s’amortissent. Quelqu’un me regarde. Je sens que quelqu’un me suive. Ca ne peut pas être un droid, je l’aurais entendu. Peut-être un mutant. Comment est possible ? Est-ce-qu’ils m’ont déjà trouvé ? Je commence à devenir nerveux. Ou est mon contact ?

Je hâte le pas et je me replonge dans la rue principale, en essayent de me perdre dans la foule. Dans la ville de Nathan Never…

La città di Nathan Never

Bangkok. Una pioggerellina fitta. Grigia. Calda. Appiccicosa. Che quasi non bagna, ma si impregna nei vestiti. Nei capelli. O forse é il vapore dei chioschi ai lati dei marciapiedi. Odore di pesce. Si confonde, si mescola. Gente per strada, mangiano, camminano. Si urtano. Degli uomini in uniforme. Fermi ai lati. Osservano. E il traffico, silenzioso e ordinato. Rosso. Verde. Rosso. Verde. Rosso.

Uno stridere sopra di me. Guardo in alto. La metropolitana leggera. La gente sui passaggi pedonali. I grattacieli di vetro e cemento. Strati che si intersecano e si sovrappongono l’un l’altro. E in fondo il cielo violaceo. Una città verticale. A livelli. Riabbasso lo sguardo e procedo. Sotto questi strati. Al primo livello.

Mi si avvicina una ragazza. Una prostituta? Mi sento tirare per un braccio. Una vecchia. Mi parla. In che lingua? Non capisco. Cerco di andarmene. Insiste. Digrigna i denti. Marci. “Dangerous”. Ringrazio, faccio un gentile inchino. Continuo.

Io in questo luogo ci sono già stato. Mi sembra. Mi pare. Non ricordo. Forse in un sogno? Adesso mi confondo… Mi avvicino per leggere, ma le lettere assumono forme che non riconosco. Mi volto come in cerca di un aiuto. Nessuno. Solo gente che cammina disordinatamente. Continuo a camminare.

Lascio la strada principale. Giro a sinistra e poi a destra in un vicolo secondario. I rumori del traffico di colpo si attutiscono. Qualcuno mi guarda. Mi sento seguito. Non un droide, l’avrei sentito. Forse un mutante. Com’è possibile? Mi hanno già trovato? Comincio a innervosirmi. Dov’é il mio contatto?

Accelero il passo e mi rituffo nella strada principale, cercando di confondermi tra la gente. Nella città di Nathan Never…

My first day at the Bank

Lasciate ogni speranza o voi che entrate

From my archives - a short story of my first days in Washington and in the US…

[…] let me now start telling you about my adventures here in the States. I know a story should start from the beginning, but allow me to start this story a few days after the beginning, and precisely on the day in which I reported to the office: Tuesday February, 22nd, 9.00 am local time.

The building at 1818 H Street, NW - Washington, DC - I have to admit - is rather impressive. It occupies an entire “block” (the basic road unit in the States) and it is surrounded by concrete fences and upright policemen. As an ancient middle-age castle, its shadow strikes the same fear on the neighbourhood. I was told that the former four independent buildings (the towers?) have been unified by a glass and steel structure to form the present building (the castle!). If the result, outside, is as I said pretty impressive, the interior is even more impressive. Because of this glass structure, the main hall is enlightened by sunlight, and there is a huge artificial waterfall in the middle of the hall surrounded by evergreen trees which creates a “tropical forest” ambience...

Still a bit confused in looking around, I showed my letter of appointment to the lady at the desk, asking where I should go. I was told that the African Region, the division where I’ll work, is not in the “MC” building (the main complex), but in the “J” building, just across the street. A bit disappointed for not working in that amazing environment, but still excited by my “first” day of work, I crossed the street and entered into the J building. The J building is definitively less impressive than the main one, but equally nice. The sixth floor (where I had to go) is full of well taken care plants and colourful African decorations, and the floor is covered by a “clean” fitted carpet (don’t be surprised if I was struck by this detail: I spent my last year in the UK!). The offices are not particularly spacious, but they all seemed bright. There, I met Beula, the unit’s secretary (or programme assistant, as the new protocol prescribes), that, after the usual welcoming ceremonials, told me that my manager was in a meeting for the whole morning, and offered to show me my desk. I will talk more about Beula in the future, because she is really worth an entire chapter. However, I don’t want to lose track of the events that so deeply characterized my first day of work, and, probably, my existence from now onwards…

We returned to the lifts, so I sharply deducted that my office was not at the same floor of my manager’s. Fair enough. I couldn’t see however which button Beula pushed because there were other people in the lift, but I immediately realized we were going down. Again, fair enough. The lift stopped at each floor to let the people in and out, and at each floor I was ready to go out. But Beula didn’t move. Fifth, fourth floor… nothing… Third, second… still nothing… I was a bit worried: the first floor here in the States is in fact the ground floor in the rest of the world. However I thought my office could be in another building. Logistically it wouldn’t have been convenient, but the idea that I could be sent to the main building relieved me a bit. But my illusion did not last long, just the time of one floor. We reached in fact the first floor, and still Beula didn’t go out of the lift… Only when the door opened at the B1 floor (the basement) we finally went out and only then I realized with horror how terrible my days at the World Bank would have been…

As in a probably worst version of Kusturica’s “Underground”, the office (?) was situated completely under-ground. The first thing that I noticed was that there were no windows at all, and the only sources of light were a sequence of greenish, cold, trembling neon-lights. As in Kusturica’s “Underground”, as in Dante’s Hell, as in a medieval hall for torture, a dozen of employees (slaves?) run here and there in this dungeon, more similar to mice in the subway’ rails than to human beings. In this miserable environment I was desperately looking for a sign of humanity, but nobody did pay attention to me, probably because the hostile environment had already taken away from them any residue of humanity. Only my two neighbours raised their tired and heavy heads from the screen of their computers and turned to give me a sad welcome. And only then I noticed with disgust and terror their grey faces and their glassy eyes - as that of those creatures that live in the abysses of the oceans and have altered their physical structure to make up for the lack of light and to adapt to the eternal darkness. I screamed in terror and turned around ready to escape, but Beula had already left, taking away any remaining hope that I would find my way back to the surface again…

In this hopeless framework, only two things partially comforted me. First, as all American happy end stories want, it doesn’t matter from where you start, but where you arrive. American stories are full of self-made people who started at the very bottom before building their empires, and “democratic” Americans seem to like this kind of stories and these kind of modern heroes (it’s sufficient to spend half-hour in any American bookshop). So, if I have to adapt to these new rules - and if this is what future puts aside for me - well, I believe that B1 is bottom enough. Second, and at this point probably more important for my spirit, there are two floors below mine: B2 and B3. That is to say: it could have been worst!

Quando Sara mi ha chiesto se potevo farle da testimone...

Quando Sara mi ha chiesto se potevo farle da testimone, mi sono sentito da un lato molto onorato, ma dall’altro parecchio in difficoltà. E non per l’ascesa alpinistica che avrei dovuto affrontare per arrivare fin qui - a quei tempi ero ancora ignaro della ‘via crucis’ che mi (che ci) attendeva…

Dicevo, quando Sara mi ha chiesto se potevo farle da testimone, mi sono sentito molto onorato, ma altrettanto in difficoltà. E gliel’ho detto.

Per me, infatti, il testimone dello sposo (o della sposa, come in questo caso) ha quattro doveri fondamentali.

Primo: aiutare la sposa a scegliere l’abito nuziale. Lasciamo stare che vivo a Delhi, a più di 8,000 Km di distanza, ma… si è mai visto un uomo dare consigli a una donna sulla scelta di un vestito??

(Comunque, chiunque l’abbia aiutata: ottima scelta J)

Secondo: organizzare l’addio al nubilato. E qui, avevo una lista di localini… Ma in questo caso devo dire che per fortuna di Sara (o di Tommy) abitavo a più di 8,000 Km di distanza.

Terzo: fare il discorso al matrimonio. E qui ho dovuto cedere…

Che dire dunque di questo matrimonio?

Bhe, posso dire che oggi Tommy è l’uomo più fortunato al mondo.

E non perché gli è bruciata la casa. O forse sì, proprio perché gli è bruciata la casa.

Visto che vengo dall’India, colgo questa occasione per condividere con voi un po’ di saggezza indiana e raccontarvi una storiella che si racconta da quelle parti.

In un villaggio sulle montagne dell’Himalaya, un giovane un giorno trova un cavallo. Tutto il villaggio dice: “Che fortuna!”. E il saggio del villaggio: “Vediamo”.

Infatti il giovane andando a cavallo cade e si rompe un braccio. Tutto il villaggio dice: “Che sfortuna!”. E il saggio del villaggio: “Vediamo”.

E infatti scoppia la guerra, e tutti i giovani del villaggio sono chiamati alle armi. Ma il giovane che aveva il braccio rotto viene dispensato. Tutto il villaggio dice: “Che fortuna!”. E il saggio del villaggio…

Tutto questo per dire che non sappiamo mai cosa ci riserva la vita, e dire a priori se ciò che ci accade sia un evento fortunato o meno. Oggi per esempio possiamo dire che ciò che inizialmente poteva sembrare una mezza disgrazia per Tommy, gli abbia in realtà permesso di conoscere Sara - e vediamo tutti com’è andata a finire.

Tommy, oggi sei l’uomo più fortunato al mondo. Hai trovato l’amore di Sara. Abbine cura.

Avevo detto che il testimone aveva quattro doveri fondamentali.

Il quarto è il dovere più bello e più difficile allo stesso tempo: vegliare sul vostro matrimonio.

Bello perché è appagante sentirsi complici, confidenti, consiglieri della coppia. Pensare che un po’ del successo della loro unione dipenda anche da te.

Difficile perché, chiaramente, il successo della vostra unione dipende - alla fine - soprattutto da voi.

Quello che posso promettervi - che posso prometterti, Sara - è che ogniqualvolta avrai bisogno potrai contare su di me.

Dovunque io sia, ogni volta che avrai bisogno di un consiglio, di una parola, di una spalla - io ci sarò.

Journey into the darkness of Delhi (3) - The end of the story

(Continues from the previous posts)

Rule number one when you travel: fidarsi é bene, ma non fidarsi é meglio (to trust is good, not to trust is better).

Remember when I paid my driver and dismissed him before jumping on the policeman’s vespa? Well, consistent with rule n. one, I took that opportunity to quickly remove most of the cash from my wallet and keep in it only the change that the driver gave me back. So, when the two cops asked me how much I had in my wallet, I almost apologized showing them that, unfortunately, I didn’t have much.

When I finally left the scene, I drew a deep sigh of relief: “God willing, this night is really over…”

End of the story? Well, not completely…

A few days have passed, and still the annoyance for how that night concluded has gone away yet.

The annoyance for having suffered an abuse of power, a wrong. The annoyance for not having been able to say no, for not having been able to oppose to an abuse. For not having been able to be consistent with my principles and values.

And it little matters that, with hindsight, that has probably been the wisest decision I could take in that very moment, the best way I could handle that situation. That in the end I paid much less than if I had had to pay the fine…

In the deepest part of my heart I know I could have said no. And I didn’t. And this bothers me enormously…

Journey into the darkness of Delhi (2)

(Continues from the previous post)

In the middle of the night, with a tuk-tuk driver as only companion, on board of a rickety rickshaw, I began my journey into the darkness of Delhi - in search of my lost scooter.

And in fact, Delhi by night seems a totally different city. As much crowded and noisy during the day, as empty and quiet during the night - a ghost town: faint light from the street lamps, no one around but a few dogs. All is still, all is motionless. As in a dream...

And yet, every time we stopped at a crossroad looking for someone who could help us in finding the police station, a multitude of individuals emerged from the darkness. Dozens and dozens of skinny and half-naked men, from the garbage piled up on the sidewalks, from the flowerbeds of the roundabouts. Dozens and dozens, emerging from everywhere, as in a Romero’s movie...

These are the ‘PBPL’ of our reports and statistics: ‘people-below-the-poverty-line’, the poorest of the poor, individuals with no name, no age, no house, no rights or entitlements: nothing of nothing.

Deformed, ugly, stinky, and yet friendly and warm-hearted: they all took my case to their hearts when the tuk-tuk driver explained them the situation, and tried to be helpful as much as they could: spreading the word to the other tramps, offering to accompany us to the police station, simply being solidly behind. A gleam of human warmth in the middle of all that misery…

Following their directions, through a labyrinth of lanes and alleys, we reached three different police stations. Rather dreary places: shaky neon lights, stale smell, half-sleepy policemen in empty offices. Reluctantly, we were accompanied each time to the station's car deposit (more similar to wreck deposits than anything else) - each time to verify that my scooter was not there.

I had almost lost all my hopes, when at the forth police station we visited, the policeman on duty (a more zealous fellow than the ones we met before) asked me a few questions, made a few telephone calls, and finally told me to go with him.

Pervaded with a new hope, I paid and said good-bye to my trusty driver, and jumped on the Vespa of the policeman. In a few minutes we reached another deposit, where another cop was waiting for us. I hadn’t even crossed the gate of the deposit that I recognized my scooter parked there. I heaved a sigh of relief: “End of the nightmare” I thought.

We spent the following few minutes dealing with the usual paperwork: I showed them the documents of the scooter, they asked me the usual questions (name, address, what I was doing in India, etc.), etc., etc.

I had just finished pronouncing my deepest thanks and was ready to leave, when the two cops mumbled something. Before I understood they were saying “tip, tip”, one of the two asked me straightforwardly: “How much do you have in your wallet?”.

“Oh f…ck!” I thought, analyzing the situation. I was alone in a car deposit, at three in the night, with two armed cops who were asking me how much I had in my wallet. And I had just withdrawn cash that day…

“Oh f…ck!” I repeated to myself…

(I’m leaving tomorrow eve to Udaipur, Rajasthan, to join my mum for the week-end. I’ll be back on Sunday eve, and will conclude the story and tell how I dealt with the situation at my return. I am however curious to know what you would have done if you were in my shoes. Do let me know…)

Journey into the darkness of Delhi

“Is it safe to leave your scooter parked outside unattended?” asked me Garvey while we were saying good-bye to each other yesterday night. “Well, I’ll tell you in five minutes” I answered laughing, leaving the hotel.

If there was one thing I was quite confident about Delhi in fact was that it is a safe place. Never experienced or heard of any theft, robbery, etc. In short, never been worried of leaving my scooter unattended.

You can then imagine how I felt when I realized my scooter was not where I parked it anymore.

After having cursed Garvey (“Bird of ill omen!”), I started cursing myself: “Why didn’t I take a taxi tonight?”, “Why did I park it here?”, “Why me???”.

However, if there is something I recognize about myself is that I rarely panic. I noticed a few tramps who were sleeping on the sidewalk where I left my scooter. I approached them, I woke them up, and (gesticulating) I tried to ask them if they knew what happened to my scooter.

In an instant I was surrounded by a dozen of tramps who were confusedly speaking to me in an unknown language (Hindi? Urdu? Telugu???) while holding me by the arms, by the legs, by everything (!) - while other odd characters were appearing from nowhere and adding up to the small crowd. I was trying to politely wriggle out and sneak off, when someone in the crowd said “Police”.

“Police?”.

In short, what I guessed out of the conversation with this person (but please, do imagine the situation: trying to ask questions to someone that only speaks Hindi - if it was Hindi at all) was that the police removed my vehicle as it was illegally parked on the sidewalk.

I gave a sigh of relief. Even though I was literally astonished thinking that the police had the time to remove a scooter from an empty sidewalk in an empty neighborhood in the middle of the night (they really have nothing else to do!), at least I was relieved by the fact that my scooter seemed not to be stolen. However, immediately after I started wondering “How the hell can I find my scooter back in the middle of Delhi in the middle of the night???”.

With the help of my tramps we managed to find a rickshaw (indeed not an easy task as all the streets were empty as if the city had been abandoned). I jumped on it and - ordering the driver “Police-station, police-station” - I started what, in truth, has become a journey in the darkness of Delhi…

(Continues…)

Queridos Renato y Carito...

Renato y Carito,

Es un honor para mí compartir con ustedes, con sus familias, con sus amigos, este día especial.

Es un honor porque puedo decir haber sido testigo de sus historia, de cómo su amor nació, y como se consolidó.

¿Cómo conocí a Renato? Bueno, acababa de llegar a Washington, no conocía a nadie, necesitaba socializar, y, de pronto, recibí un email que me invitaba a jugar a volleyball. No sabía bien qué hacer, pero tan solo cinco minutos después recibí otro email de “rnardello” que decía: “He visto tu nombre en la lista de directionnes de correo; ¿eres italiano? Hola, me llamo Renato…”

Y así empezó nuestra amistad. Una buena amistad, que tenía su ápice en las que llamábamos “nuestras noches ‘gay’”, durante las cuales normalmente nos salíamos a cenar, y hablábamos de todos: la vida, el trabajo, las mujeres…

Así nació y se consolidó nuestra amistad. En Renato encontré en verdad más que un amigo: mi hermano mayor.

Nuestras noches ‘gays’ eran divertidas, pero después de unos meses, faltaba algo… bueno (obviamente) ¡las mujeres!

Y casualmente (o no) fue el mismo volley que nos hice encontrar que nos llevó a Carito.

Carito era sin duda la más hermosa de nuestro grupo de volley. Hermosa, si, pero inalcanzable, y ganar su corazón era, en verdad, una impresa casi imposible.

Y bueno, tenemos que dar crédito a Renato que con su perseverancia más china que italiana, consiguió conquistar el corazón de Carito.

Y ahora que estoy aquí de testigo de su amor, buscaba unas palabras para brindar a sus vida juntos.

Y espero que mi amigo Jorge (Caledon) me perdone si me apropio de las palabras de una de sus canciones, la canción que Renato prefiere, para brindar por Renato y Carito.

¿Qué es entonces una vida junta? Es ‘tener siempre alguien que nos quiere, siempre alguien que nos cuida’.

Brindemos entonces por la vida juntos de Renato y Carito: ¡que la quieran, que se quieran!