“From us to me” (Amber Collective, 2016): a review

It's strange how when watching some films one suddenly feels like one must imperatively write a review about them. Not just because it's a good film, often an excellent film, but because it's virtually unknown. Or at least one hasn't ever heard about it before. It's not like a standalone review in a small, little-known film blog will make too much of a difference, but on the age of the Internet, it may indeed make a difference (see the list of results when googling the last film one reviewed for the Spanish Film Review Club, "Illfares the land", a Channel 4 documentary directed by Bill Bryden back in 1983). You could argue that same as the blog does a service to a certain kind of non-mainstream Spanish cinema like the films by Jaime Rosales by postingvaluable material about it on the Internet, it can also do it for other non-mainstream kind of cinema.

It’s also funny how exactly the same feeling one had when watching the extraordinary documentary about St Kilda at the Edinburgh Filmhouse in May 2018 (two years ago already without contributing to the blog!) came back – I need to write about this for the blog – at the May 29^th, 2020 screening of this “From us to me”. I say funny because this screening was again part of the FolkFilm Gathering Festival – in this case the 2020 edition, while the St Kilda docu was shown as part of the 2018 edition.

It would seem that this particular festival is prone to surface hidden gems of British cinema that find a way to one’s heart – even if being able to just hold this year’s edition was a feat of imagination, with cinemas everywhere officially closed due to the Covid-19 pandemic (a shout out to Transgressive North for their resilience and persistence). As stated on the BellaCaledonia webpage devoted to the event:

“The event, now in its sixth year, is geared to explore the possibility of a ‘folk cinema’. Run by Transgressive North the event (like everything else) has had to be moved online.

So this year it’s completely free and completely online.

The chance to hold a free festival has been welcomed as an “ironic silver lining” within a “horrible situation” by director Jamie Chambers.

“We’ve wanted for a while to run an event that is both freely available and widely accessible but it has taken a lot of thinking on our feet to completely change our approach and revise the whole programme in such a short space of time,” he said.

The theme has also changed slightly.

The theme was originally going to be ‘Resistance’ but has been since changed to ‘Collectivity Against The Odds’ and explores ways in which we can hold on to our sense of community when forced into ever greater levels of individualism – both by the pressures of the pandemic and by the wider, longer-term forces in society. To this end we are hosting a discussion asking:

“What can we do to hold on to our sense of community and stay connected, not only during the Covid-19 pandemic, but once it is over? How can we hold onto our sense of collectivity, and prioritise the ties that bind us all together, rather than the forces pressurising us apart? In a world where the “collective” and the “public” were already concepts under sustained attack, this has become an urgent pressing issue.”

So the whole set of documentary films that made up the programme for the Film Folk Gathering 2020 edition where screened for free via Zoom and the opportunity was offered to attendees to stay in the call for a post-screening chat or Q&A with the film directors. Simply brilliant. It’s easy to see how largerfestivals would not be able to replicate this approach, based on a “small hence flexible” strategy coupled to a people-not-profit drive that clearly not everyone can afford.

The lucky attendees to the May 29^th screening of “From us to me” then had the opportunity to stay online for a chat on the film with several of the Newcastle-based Amber Collective members to discuss how come they were allowed to shoot – back in 1987 – the only British documentary ever made in the German Democratic Republic (“they thought we were left-wing Labour so would be able to convey a balanced picture”) or how the agreement worked with the GDR’s DEFA Documentary Film Studio that allowed them to shoot a return flick (“DieseBriten, diese Deutschen” or “These Brits, these Germans”) in Newcastle in 1988. Not the kind of internationalism we seem to favour these days, truth to be said.

As explained above, this reviewer was both blown away by the film and astonished he hadn’t heard about the Amber Collective ever before despite his deep interest in and substantial previous reading about British social cinema. But as the Spanish say goes, “you’ll never go to bed without having learnt something new”, and a bit of online self-documenting quickly showed some of the reasons why Amber may not be more widely known. This is from the introduction to the just-released (April 2020) book “In Fading Light: The Filmsof the Amber Collective” by James Leggott:

"Amber may have been recognized as the 'most important and enduring collective to have emerged in Britain', but in an interview carried out in 2000, their key founding member Murray Martin lamented how they had hitherto flown mostly beneath the critical and historical radar:

"At times we feel a bit aggrieved that our existence isn't even recognized. If you look at the histories of British cinema, it's not recognized and yes, fifteen years ago, Lindsay Anderson was quoted as saying to someone who was doing a history of British cinema: 'if you don't include Amber there is no history of British cinema'. And yet we're never mentioned"

So this is definitely one of the reasons for writing this review: not just to admit to one’s ignorance but to also hopefully allow others to learn about this amazing group of storytellers.

“From us to me” is actually two films in one. Same as Michael Powell’s “Return to the Edge of the World” 1978 film revisited the people and landscapes of his (way) earlier masterpiece “The Edge of the World” (1937), “From us to me” is the result of a 2016 revisit to the Rostock/Warnemünde people and landscapes that featured in the earlier “From Marks & Spencer to Marx and Engels”. This FMSME is the 1987 documentary that was part of the original two-way agreement between Channel 4 and DEFA, and it was of course shot before the fall of the Berlin Wall as an attempt to document the reality of life in a rather remote location close to the Baltic Sea where the GDR lifestyle looked set to go on for decades on end. The 2016 film has a deeper feeling to it – it’s not just about documenting the effects of die Wende on the average citizen’s life (especially on working women) but also about exploring the attitudes of current day people we “already met” thirty years ago towards their new socio-economic circumstances – their joys and their regrets. This is sheer gold dust for anyone interested in contemporary European history – with present-daypolitical ramifications too that the film wisely stays away from.

The documentary also provides a refreshing complementary take to the present, neoliberal mainstream narrative provided by stories like the “Letterswithout Signature” exhibition at the Berlin Museum for Communication (until October this year, not to be missed if you have the opportunity) or the great “TheFile: A Personal History” account by Timothy Garton Ash. There were of course lots of political issues around everyday life in the GDR, and the Stasi infiltration of civil society was possibly the greatest one – providing perhaps an ironic counterpart to these current times marked by our ubiquitous very own brand of surveillance capitalism – but that was not all there was to it. There are very interesting facts to be learnt about how everyday life unfolded in places like the Rostock harbour and how things have evolved in the decades after the downfall of the Communist regime. And this “balanced perspective” that could be expected from a group of left-wing Labour filmmakers is indeed there in this documentary.

We listen to the former employees at the harbour cranes now in disrepair who just loved their jobs – it is much harder for women to land these sorts of job these days, they tell us – and the perspective on the dawn and the dusk over the Baltic they would get from their cabins at the top of the huge metal structures. They’re discussing to what extent the statements they provided in the previous round of filming were influenced by a given secretive political climate back then. One of them, a mother of a severely disabled child, celebrates the sophisticated healthcare service that the new political system has allowed her to rely on. The owners of the former fishermen’s cooperative regret that the whole enterprise, together with its strategically placed headquarters at the mouth of the harbour, were liquidated for a pittance following the post-1989 refusal of their fellow GDR countrymen and –women to buy any product that was coming from the local supply chains, favouring instead anything on offer at the brand new, colourful Western-style supermarkets.

There is the ‘successful’ couple who have very effectively adapted to the new reality and regularly enjoy diving and trekking trips to faraway places like Mexico. And there’s the fishing ship captain telling us how he and his crew would be allowed to leave the national territorial waters in order to get their catches further away and how he never considered not returning – a family and a home were waiting for him back in Rostock. He says the biggest mistake the former regime made was to ban the people from traveling abroad – “they should have allowed young people to travel and see the world, and all of them would have returned once they had seen that this was a safe country with jobs for everyone”, the former fisherman, now retired, states.

It’s hard to understate the deeply moving authenticity of this “From us to me”. The fact that its screening was followed by a smallonline discussion with a few Amber filmmakers plus Richard Grassick and Beatrix Wupperman from co-producing Moving Films was a great bonus – we learnt for instance how the filmmakers managed to locate the cast of the 1987 film “From Marks & Spencer to Marx and Engels” with whom they had never planned to reunite. In a way, the Zoom link provided a chance for an even warmer conversation than the one that would’ve taken place in a cinema room.






Richard Grassick closed the delightful session with a quip: “since we were often being accused of documenting trades on the verge of disappearing -- Yorkshire coal-mining, fishing, harness racing – we though ‘Ok, let’s go and make a film about some rock-solid working-class reality that will not be at any risk of vanishing, such as the German Democratic Republic. This was 1987’”.

La extraordinaria aventura ocurrida a Vladímir Mayakovski en verano, en el campo (1920)

  [Post invitado, por R.A., editora de Andanzas asimétricas]

Dentro del espacio dedicado a Vladimir Maiakovski (1893-1930) en la exposición "La Caballería Roja. Creación y poder en la Rusia soviética de 1917 a 1945" que se celebra actualmente en La Casa Encencida de Madrid, figura este estupendo poema de 1920. Después de verlo en mi primera visita a la exposición traté de localizarlo en la Red, pero sólo pude encontrar una versión del mismo en portugués. Para subsanar la inexistencia de un texto del poema en castellano me acerqué una segunda vez a La Casa Encendida -la exposición ciertamente lo merece- para copiar el poema y volcarlo en algún lugar que permita su localización.



Centenares de soles llameaban al oeste,
El verano estaba bien maduro
Y el calor hacía la plancha,
Era verano en el campo.
El lomo de Puchkino llevaba
La giba del monte Akula,
Mientras que allá abajo
Un villorrio retorcía
La corteza de sus techos.
Detrás de tal villorio,
Un pozo donde, invariablemente,
El sol caía con lentitud y majestad.
Pero de mañana,
Todavía,
Asciende
Para inundar al mundo de rojo.
Día tras día, sí,
Y esto
Acabó por irritarme
Bárbaramente.
Finalmente tan furioso
Que a mi alrededor todo se marchita de miedo,
Grité, de cara al sol:
"Baja!
Basta de remolonear por las fogatas!"
Grité:
"Holgazán!
Te reblandeces en las nubes,
Mírame, llueve o truene,
Yo sudo sobre mis carteles".
Grité:
"Un momento!"
Escucha, frente dorada,
Si, en lugar de acostarte
En cualquier sitio,
Bajases
A visitarme?"...
Maldición, qué hice!
Estoy perdido!
Gustosamente
El sol se dirige hasta mí,
Atravesando el campo,
Apartando el paso de sus rayos.
Escondo mi miedo,
Intento retroceder.
Ya sus ojos llegan al jardín
Lo cruzan.
Por las ventanas,
Por las puertas,
Por la más mínima hendidura,
Entraba la masa solar,
Que parecía desplomarse,
Recuperar el aliento,
Y en voz baja dijo:
"Por primera vez
Desde el Origen
mis rayos están de vuelta.
Me has llamado?
Quiero una taza de té,
Quiero mermelada!"
Con lágrimas en los ojos
-su calor me volvía loco-
Le señalo
El samovar:
"Toma asiento, pués,
Astro mío!"
No sé por qué le hablo
De forma tan insolente,
Confuso,
Me siento en la punta de un banco,
Temiendo empeorar la cosa.
Pero el sol fluía
Una singular, serena claridad,
Y muy pronto,
Sin ceremonias,
Nos pusimos
A charlar, animadamente.
Digo esto
Y aquello, y cómo
La Rosta me roe,
Y el sol:
"No te preocupes,
No compliques más las cosas!
Piensa lo simple
Que es para mí lucir!
Anda, inténtalo!
Uno puede brillar
Con todas sus fuerzas!
Y así charlamos y charlamos
Hasta que cayó la noche,
Mejor dicho, hasta que cayó
Lo que antes era la noche.
Acaso es posible hablar aquí de oscuridad?
Tuteándonos nos sentimos
A nuestras anchas.
Pronto
Le palmeo amistosamente
El hombro.
Y el sol, dice:
"Estás tú, estoy yo,
Estamos, querido amigo, nosotros dos!
Subamos, poeta,
Adonde vuelan las águilas,
Cantemos
En lo grisáceo de este mundo.
Pongo, por mi parte, mi sol propio,
Tú el tuyo,
En versos".
El muro de las sombras,
Cárcel de las noches,
Cayó bajo el fuego
Gemelo de los soles.
Confusión de versos y de luces.
Vamos, brilla todo lo que puedas!
Si el prójimo se fatiga
Y la noche
Quiere acostarse
-estúpido lirón-
Entonces me toca a mí,
De pronto levantado,
Irradiar, irradiar
Para que el carrillón del día
Suene una vez más.
Brillar siempre,
Brillar por todas partes,
Brillar, y nada de cuentos!
Tal lo que ordenamos
El Sol
Y yo.

The unavoidable décalage

  Always try to write a few lines when travelling - a sort of account for the places I've been to. In this particular trip to Ghana, the posts were also a kind of present for a collegue, who is sentimentally linked to West Africa. However, it's not always easy to get the texts written and posted before another journey starts. Just a few hours after leaving Accra, I'm writing these lines in the Belgian train that's taking me from Charleroi to Mons, on my way to Lille where tomorrow I'll be attending yet another conference.

A final gift

  Wake up really early in order to board the 5 am return flight to Casablanca. Last night I agreed with the taxi driver that brought me to the (quite secluded) hotel from Kotoka airport he would collect me there in time for the morning flight. But he doesn't show up. In the meantime however I'm able to quietly stare at this wonderful equatorial night sky, with stars and constellations well away from their usual positions. The regular 23º axial tilt has vanished, and you have Orion right on top of your head and Sirius shining really high up there. There are stars over there I have never seen before, and knowing that makes it really special even if I won't be able to tell their names (will check later). It's a nice final present from Ghana, and this one was for free!

The cab driver wouldn't arrive in the end - even if it may actually be more expensive to make a phone call when not running on a local SIM card, remember to always keep the driver's phone number just in case he should forget about a previous
arrangement.

It was just great to be here.

Walking ATMs

  I meet these three Danish people outside the Manhyia Palace after the colourful Adae festival (actually only the two girls are Danish, the guy is probably from India). I'm carrying the Ghana Bradt guide wrapped in a newspaper page, but they will know anyway. "Would that book you're carrying be the Bradt guide by any chance? We'd need to have a look at the map of Kumasi featured in there". Wow.


I tell them it's in Spanish, but they won't mind, they're just interested in how to get to the tro-tro station to get a bus back to KNUST -or Tech, as everyone here calls the Kwame Nkrumah Science and Technology University. I tell them I'm waiting for my taxi to Kejetia market to arrive, and since both places are very close to each other, they might just prefer to wait and board my taxi instead of walking.

After a brief hesitation, they accept. They are students at KNUST doing some Master in Administration there. Aegyman -the cab driver- won't have any trouble with taking four people instead of one (I've read the regular number of people carried in taxicabs in rural areas is six, two in the front side and four at the back) and on our way we go towards the crowded area in Kumasi (it's a Sunday). After a short ride that will take us across St Peter's Cathedral, a local cinema and the packed Kejetia outskirts, we arrive to the station and the students get down. The Indian-looking guy asks me on leaving whether they're supposed to pay anything for the ride. Answer's no - "you're my guests".

I read at the Bradt guide that Ghanaian people are claimed to be the nicest, most gentle African citizens towards travellers. And indeed they are nice and helpful. But most times it'll be for a fee.

One is very aware of the poverty issues local citizens face when travelling across these countries - you just need to have a pair of eyes on your face to realize that. But the huge, shining Mitshubishi, Toyota or Nissan 4x4s and pickups are also quite evident (specially at the luxury hotel parking, it should be noted). And being very nice to the visitor expecting to receive a generous cash gift in exchange is not what I'd call gentleness. This is always an issue when visiting any developing country -almost a cliche. But I've been to a few of them already and this sensation of tourists being perceived as walking ATMs -as cows to be milked was my own metaphor, the other, better one is Bradt's- was strongest in Ghana. And this is not necessarily related to poverty levels, but to the number of tourists around. Specially if their main concern is actually taking pictures of turkeys.



My personal advice after a week stay: make sure you always carry as many 1 cedi or 2 cedi banknotes as possible (not always easy to get hold of, as small change is usually scarce). I saw the amounts visitors to Elmina Castle had given to the children from the local football school -they showed the list to me- and that's what I'd call spoiling a country.

On fire?

  The very same BBC professionals - via its brilliant 'Focus on Africa' magazine, surely not the happiest branch in the House after being hit quite hard by funding cuts- mimic the (often extremely) biased coverage of African affairs by their partner World News department by putting together some sort of Quarterly Quotes 'special issue' on African leaders recommending their people not to travel to the UK due to potential security issues after the Tottenham riots broke in.

"Britain, I understand, is on fire" (R. Mugabe) or "Those who can delay or postpone their trips should consider doing so" (South Africa's Department of International Relations and Cooperation) are part of this fresh quote collection. But to get the metaphor right the coverage should actually be restricted to student distress and demonstrations over tuition fees - and totally ignoring the rest of the stuff (including Premier League, unfeasible therefore). Just featuring angry people at the economic havoc - that sort of thing anyway.

Even if I'm aware it's not easy to be a journalist under certain circumstances in certain African countries, I don't think any sensible newsperson would buy such a biased approach. But mainstream media are nowadays sucked by the political whirlpool and lie farther from objectivity than ever. Then again, no one seems to care too much about it - save maybe for some scattered Occupy people here and there.

A working class hero

  Read this touching reflection at the end of a wikipedia post on Bob Marley while in my hotel room listening to the distant reggae-like tunes of the invited band - it's a Friday. Marley's image on T-shirts and posters is also quite frequent in Africa - only second to specific football sportswear, see next post.

The 'Legacy' section of the Marley wikipedia text reads as follows:
Marley has also evolved into a global symbol, which has been endlessly merchandised through a variety of mediums. In light of this, author Dave Thompson in his book 'Reggae and Caribbean Music', laments what he perceives to be the commercialized pacification of Marley's more militant edge, stating:
"Bob Marley ranks among both the most popular and the most misunderstood figures in modern culture ... That the machine has utterly emasculated Marley is beyond doubt. Gone from the public record is the ghetto kid who dreamed of Che Guevara and the Black Panthers, and pinned their posters up in the Wailers Soul Shack record store; who believed in freedom; and the fighting which it necessitated, and dressed the part on an early album sleeve; whose heroes were James Brown and Muhammad Ali; whose God was Ras Tafari and whose sacrament was marijuana. Instead, the Bob Marley who surveys his kingdom today is smiling benevolence, a shining sun, a waving palm tree, and a string of hits which tumble out of polite radio like candy from a gumball machine. Of course it has assured his immortality. But it has also demeaned him beyond recognition. Bob Marley was worth far more".


So here I am, pretty much stucked at the luxury hotel (too much work) which will make you feel as if you were staying at any similar hotel in a Western capital. Only reality is just a threshold away. All these interchangeable hotels have their standard music threads going on day and night (horror vacui is the actual name for that) and Oh dear, there is the 'pacification' or 'emasculation' at its highest peak. Not just Marley -don't hear any of his songs along my whole stay- but every single musician. Take Lennon, for instance: 'Woman' and a funny female-voiced version of 'Beautiful boy' are both featured (true: I do other things besides listening to the rubbish that pours out of the loudspeakers, so I can't actually tell about how it goes 24/7). And that's it. No 'Imagine'. No 'Working class hero'. No 'Cold turkey' (well I can understand there's no 'Cold turkey'). Not a single African song (closest to it being Collins' 'Another day in paradise', which is African alright). Polite radio indeed. Like candy from a gumball machine. Indeed.

Whatever happened to brave music broadcasters?

[I know luxury hotel music threads have nothing to do with broadcasters or DJs, but rather with computers and telecoms, but it's a very sad thing what they do to music - like Flack's 'Killing me softly' only the other way round, it's actually the music what gets systematically killed there]

Football is BIG in Ghana

  One of the greatest advantages of loving football is you can engage in a conversation on the topic with practically anyone who shares interest, regardless of origin or the team each one supports. Football was big on TV screens along my 1-week stay in Ghana, was big on Open Access Africa 2011 Conference breaks and was the topic of one of the best conversations I had along my stay, on Ghanaian football teams role along the African Champions League competition (Ghana has sustainedly been one of the best African national teams for quite some time now).

You may be surprised to find blackboards among the shantytown houses by the road announcing Chelsea-Arsenal being broadcasted at the local 'New Wembley' joint that afternoon. Or the whole Spanish Liga schedule for the day. But that's only the first few times you see it. Then you get used to it all. The cheering coming out of bars at Premier League match time (and not just from blockbuster games: Sunderland-Aston Villa will do as well). The hotel manager watching an Atletico Madrid-Zaragoza game late at night. T-shirts from all conceivable teams and players being worn by young and old people all around town. Borussia Dortmund flag flying high at the top end of a ship pole among dozens of national -mainly African- flags in Elmina (actually hand-made rags so that the English flag will rather look like the Red Cross one). Football is a true religion in this country (and then I suddenly remember this UAE taxi driver telling me last year in Dubai that "football was too much of a passion" in his country).

Nigerian attendees to the Conference making up over 80% of the total number, coffee breaks where a great chance for trying to find out the causes for the national football squad demise in international tournaments since that unforgettable U.S.-held World Cup back in '94. After independently talking to a couple of them, they agreed it was due to politics and football mismanagement in the country. One of them did also incidentally inform me he considered Jose Mourinho to be the best coach in the world, "a mathematician in his way of performing game analysis".

Finally, there was this delightful conversation on African football along wich I learned quite a lot of things (not much of an expert myself anyway). First, on the North African teams winning most recent editions of the African Champions League "because they have the money and will snatch the best West African players" (sound familiar?). Or on the best teams in Ghana, Kumasi Asante and Accra Hearts of Oak having each of them won this very Cup (even a couple of times in the case of the former). Or on the tricks for featuring much older players as U21 representatives (not in Ghana, though, "that's the Nigerian". Alright). Was having a look at the African Champions League historical records after the conversation and they are truly interesting (quite a number of countries featured on the top places including Sudan or Zimbabwe). And this year's final first leg will be taking place in four days time, on Nov 6th between Moroccan Wydad Casablanca and Tunisian Espérance ST. Wow.

Body White - the gel for lighting up your skin

  Los primeros días de estancia en Kumasi (la segunda ciudad de Ghana después de Accra, la capital) coinciden con la celebración de la Conferencia Open Access Africa 2011 en la Kwame Nkrumah Science and Technology University (KNUST). El esquema de ponente es como sigue: estamos todos alojados en el Golden Tulip Hotel de Kumasi, de donde nos recoge de buena mañana un vehículo con conductor para trasladarnos al Great Hall de la KNUST donde tiene lugar el evento. Por la tarde, una vez concluida la jornada, regresamos al hotel de la misma manera -atravesando en ambos casos los tremendos atascos de tráfico que se forman en esta ciudad en los días laborables.

No hay por tanto muchas ocasiones de tomar contacto con la ciudad. Apenas lo que se puede atisbar por la ventanilla del 4x4. Y entre lo que se atisba -una planta embotelladora de Coca-Cola, por ejemplo- destaca esta valla publicitaria con el mensaje que titula este post: un aclarador de piel (éclaircissant en su nombre original en francés) para las mujeres que no estén contentas con la tonalidad de su piel. Uno -que encuentra las pieles oscuras de lo más hermosas- se queda un poco de piedra mirando el anuncio, pensando que debe ser otra cosa. De modo que al llegar al hotel-búnker con wi-fi, se apresura a consultar Body White en Internet y descubre que sí que es lo que parecía. El marketing de cosméticos -y su creación de falsas necesidades- no conoce fronteras.

Y en la búsqueda subsiguiente de información sobre estos productos (habrá muchas mujeres africanas que utilicen esto?) encuentra uno este artículo académico: 'I Like Your Colour!' - skin bleaching and geographies of race in urban Ghana, publicado en Feminist Review (Palgrave MacMillan) en octubre de 2008. Naturalmente, desde Ghana no tengo acceso al texto completo de este trabajo -ni tampoco desde España, por cierto, es precisamente de esto de lo que he venido a hablar a esta conferencia- pero parece extraordinariamente interesante.

Inquietante bienvenida

  Aterrizamos en Accra procedentes de Casablanca poco después de las cinco de la mañana. Aparte de nuestro avión, sólo hay otro enorme en la pista por lo demás desierta: uno de Virgin Atlantic procedente de Londres que ha llegado hace diez minutos (aún están sacando las maletas). Pese a la hora, al bajar la escalerilla directamente a pista se nota el golpe de humedad y calor tropical. No es mala hora para llegar, hace mucho menos calor y la espera en la revisión de pasaportes forzosamente será más breve.

Al cruzar la aduana de entrada al país, un cartel da la bienvenida a Ghana al viajero. Dice que todos los visitantes "de buena voluntad" son bienvenidos. Y añade que "pedófilos u otros desviados sexuales" no son por contra gratos en el país y que "harían mejor en buscar otro lugar para llevar a cabo sus actividades". Ninguna mención sin embargo a traficantes de armas, tratantes de personas o muñidores de acuerdos comerciales que rayan (o caen de lleno) en la explotación. Inquietante.

Aunque un cartel no va a empañar la ilusión de estar aquí, sí es una muestra de los problemas que afronta la normal aceptación de la homosexualidad en Africa -al parecer choca de frente con un esquema tradicional de la sexualidad orientada a la reproducción. Pero ya desde Occidente se está trabajando en definir esquemas que liguen la concesión de ayuda humanitaria a una política normalizada de reconocimiento de la homosexualidad en la línea del cumplimiento de los derechos humanos.

Mapas inusuales

  A uno, que esta solo medianamente viajado para los (desmesurados) estándares de la epoca -asombro recurrente al ver los precios de los vuelos o de los paquetes de los touroperadores al sudeste asiático en Amsterdam o Londres- siempre le estimula ver mapas que no se corresponden con el esquema eurocéntrico que uno esta acostumbrado a ver: Europa al norte, en lo alto, y Africa al sur, debajo.


Pero en la pantalla del avion de Royal Air Maroc con destino a Accra las cosas se muestran de otra manera: el Golfo de Guinea al norte y las ciudades de África Occidental como destinos que alcanzar en lo alto: Bamako, Lagos, Lomé, Cotonou, Malabo, Luanda, Windhoek incluso. Siempre es agradecible modificar la perspectiva y ser consciente de que allá donde vamos no aplican estrictamente los estándares de medida occidentales, y el mapa no es sino un primer indicio de ello.

A propósito, Togo acaba de ser elegido miembro no permanente del Consejo de Seguridad de la ONU para el periodo 2012-2013.

Summertime (same all-year round) junk TV

  I thought everyone in this country went away on holiday in August leaving the professional activities to hibernate (estivate?) until September. But I found out I'm wrong: the rattlesnakes that make a living out of discussing people's sex life on high audience-rate time TV shows do not go away. It seems they never do - these "refreshing" discussions couldn't possibly be left out of the summertime picture.


How much we all need an imaginative judge that will file a default suit against the
rattlesnakes. Some Granada-based judge, say, that does not ban the sewage-channels (that would actually favour their filthy purposes) but invites them to feature counter-reactive programmes/films such as 'Free Rainer - dein Fernseher lügt' every time the junk productions are displayed (and for as long a time as those). It shouldn't necessarily be the same measure every time: alternative ideas could be funding good films (as many as the number of junk programmes they display, say - they hate it so incredibly much!)


A sideline, good-tempered reflection on the issue: they say (THEY say) priests are keen on telling people how they should behave sexually. This is really funny. When I think about who's actually spending (wasting really) their broadcasting life discussing people sex lives, it's not precisely priests (although they get their own share of the pie, that's for sure). It's actually journalists, editorialists, pathetic TV-guests, and so forth. It's not hard to imagine what their true vocation was, ha, ha. Only they drifted somewhere along the clerical road. Ha. Ha. No wonder they're so strongly opposed to them. It's actually the same breed (and this is a real insult, no offence meant anyway).


NB.- It's not my fault if the picture seems to have been taken from a porn movie. I just turned on the TV for thirty seconds and shot with my cell phone camera. Ok, it was 11:30 pm.

Convivir venciendo a los demás

  Gracias a la gentil invitación de Estela de la Euskal Etxea, ayer tarde tuve la ocasión de asistir a la proyeccción de 'Nagore', el nuevo documental de Helena Taberna ('Extranjeras', 'Yoyes', 'La buena nueva'), y al posterior coloquio con la presencia de la directora, con la que además tuvimos la oportunidad de tomar unas cañas a continuación en el sector 'Bollywood' de Lavapiés.

El documental cuenta la estremecedora historia del asesinato de la estudiante de Enfermería Nagore Laffage a manos de un residente en psiquiatría de la Clínica Universitaria de Pamplona, durante las fiestas de San Fermín de 2008. Un caso particularmente cruel de violencia de género, que despertó la condena unánime de la sociedad civil vasco-navarra. La película recoge los testimonios de los familiares de la mujer asesinada y hace un seguimiento de la movilización social, de la inusual cobertura mediática que recibió la noticia y del proceso judicial, del que se rodaron 46 horas que quedan reducidas a unos interesantísimos 20 minutos en el montaje final después de una agotadora labor de edición.


La película realiza un tratamiento muy contenido de la temática, esquivando con soltura el doble riesgo de caer en el sensacionalismo o en el amarillismo. Como se pudo apreciar en el debate, se trata de un tema polémico que involucra muy intensamente al espectador desde el punto de vista emocional y que resulta incómodo desde casi cualquier punto de vista, para las instituciones judiciales (la celebración de juicios con jurado en este tipo de delitos fue severamente criticada tanto por la audiencia como por la propia directora), para las instituciones
colateralmente implicadas en el suceso (la Clínica Universitaria de Navarra) y en general para el sector biempensante de la sociedad pamplonesa. No es de extrañar que la película no haya recibido apoyo alguno para su producción por parte de las administraciones públicas, en particular por parte del Gobierno de Navarra que tan eficazmente está apoyando el cine de su Comunidad Autónoma.

Un documento muy valioso que da pie a la reflexión, una valiente aportación al debate público y una temática de ámbito inevitablemente minoritario y alejada de lo que suele verse en las pantallas. Una apuesta personal y comprometida de una directora que quiere reflejar los temas que están en la calle - siguen subiendo las estadísticas de mujeres asesinadas.

Además de acordarnos de 'Anatomy of a murder' de Preminger y de estremecernos con la referencia a la película 'Very bad things' del asesino de Nagore en su testimonio, en la charla que mantuvimos Estela, Helena, Mentxu y el autor de estas líneas en el club de la Euskal Etxea después del coloquio se mencionó el hecho de que la violencia de género como fenómeno social es en parte el resultado de una violencia intrínseca del sistema contra los individuos que lo componen. Una violencia en el ámbito laboral, económico, personal y social en su sentido más amplio (desde la cotidiana interpretación de la realidad desde los medios de comunicación a la presencia de imágenes cosificadoras de las personas en los espacios públicos de las ciudades), que presiona a los ciudadanos de manera inmisericorde, causando eventualmente la quiebra en las personalidades que presentan alguna falla (y pocas son las que no tienen alguna). Este es un tema crítico que deshace las frecuentes simplificaciones en el tratamiento de los actos violentos en general, pero no suele aparecer en el debate público (una excepción: 'Rabia', Festival de Málaga 2010) porque sus implicaciones son demasiado desagradables, remitiendo directamente a la línea de la canción de Víctor Manuel que titula esta crónica (sí, ésa que continúa con 'Nuestra sociedad es un buen proyecto para el mal').

Seguramente plantearse una sociedad en la que el ser humano no actuara como depredador de sus semejantes constituya una utopía que será prontamente calificada de "buenista" por los descalificadores habituales, pero tiene uno la sensación inequívoca de que la sociedad que viene habrá de hacer más énfasis en conceptos como la ética, la solidaridad o la fraternidad o no será. La única manera de plantear una solución a la existencia de fallas prestas a estallar en la personalidad de una parte importante del tejido social no es evidentemente acentuar la represión, sino luchar para construir una sociedad más igualitaria en la que el ser humano pueda confiar en sus conciudadanos y en las instituciones. Toda una utopía, evidentemente, y más en estos tiempos, pero no tener esto en cuanta en el tratamiento de la violencia corre el riesgo de devenir en sensacionalistas brindis al sol.

Gracias a Helena Taberna por realizar un ejercicio de memoria crítica y por invitar a la reflexión con su estupenda obra.

Visiting Didcot: from the Diamond Light Source to the Thermal Power Plant

  Last stop of last week's tour around the UK was Didcot, Oxfordshire, where a meeting would be held. Somewhere along the road I suddenly realized the workshop would take place at the Diamond Light Source facility, "the most expensive research facility presently funded by the UK government" (proudly, the headline should certainly add despite current economic difficulties). Well, it was such a privilege to be there - I felt both proud and moved on arrival.


There are lots of discussions on whether maintaining replicated synchrotron sites makes any sense, but the science done at those facilities does usually justify the investments - if it's prosaic money what we're talking about (it seems hard to believe nowadays there was once a time when money wasn't such a big issue). It's the beauty of the site what matters and the challenges it may help tackling, and that's what one feels on arrival. The quietness of the site is also quite impressive, the highest sound around coming from the European Space Agency flag flapping at the edge of a post at the entrance.


On the way back to the station after a fruitful meeting, some impressions were gathered on the other Didcot impressive 'facility', the coal thermal power station that can be seen from miles away. It's quite unusual to find such a facility so close to a town, and this station has indeed left its trademark on the village.


'You get used to it blocking out sight in six months'. 'There's not too much wind here so sometimes the smoke coming out of the chimneys will stay around for quite a long time'. 'There are times in winter when all you see is the tip of the chimneys'. 'Although it was fairly pioneering when built, it eventually became quite outdated and it was supposed to be decommissioned in four-years time, now they're debating again on the schedule'. The cab driver did not particularly oppose the power station -probably bringing in some jobs to the local community- but he frowned when asked on whether it might be some kind of local landmark.



Forgot to ask him about the synchrotron.

Pillow fight at Trafalgar Sq

  Since the beginning of February I hadn't had the chance to stroll across Trafalgar Sq, so the minute I could free myself from other occupations I went to check this new Olympic clock (quite an opportunity for some Olympia watch brand, although I guess it should generally be Omega) that was recently set in the middle of the square - and has already seen through some events (not necessarily sport-related ones).

As I approached the National Gallery I spotted this rather large group of people standing close to the clock (which incidentally looked as it were designed by J. Mariscal) and doing some kind of dance with some white objects up over their heads. A new, more peaceful way of protesting against public-service budget cuts after the previous ones resulted in Westminster area being vandalised? Well nope. It was the Pillow Fight Day 2011!


This pillow battle is a yearly international event held in different towns around the world on the same day, among them Adelaida, Amsterdam, Brussels, Berlin, Brasilia, Barcelona and many more. This particular Trafalgar Sq event had gathered a good number of people, a couple of hundreds maybe, with pillows generously provided by the venue organisers. Couldn't really find out who these were, nor did I check out on the pillow delivery, but all of them seemed to be the same model (and quite resistant too, as there were very few feathers flying around the battleground). The fact that there were almost no feathers and that the battle was fought outdoors and in daylight prevented the scene to resemble the pillow fight in Jean Vigo's 'Zéro de conduite'. It is always pleasant however to have the chance to remember this 1933 film by the short-lived son of the anarchist.


The Admiral stood up there as usual, this time though with an envious gaze as if desiring to get down his column and design a proper strategy for the battle to be won - pillow or whatever, always a good chance for every man to do his duty.

Group sculpture at the Library

  My acquaintances point out that the two most recent entries in this blog are very political in nature, and besides that (which contradicts the original aim of the post collection) they bear no photographs. Am I by any chance running short of aesthetic experiences - they suggest?

Loads of work may well account for some recent lack of dedication to keeping an updated record for such experiences, I try to convince them - the number of blogs to maintain having recently increased too. And above all, I recently lost my iPhone4 along an unlucky visit to Gatwick airport last January, and even if I promptly got myself a new Galaxy S, the picture quality won't be half as good as it used to.

All those do however sound like futile excuses, that's true. So back to work then.

A few days ago I took this trip northwards into the Basque Country, destination Vitoria-Gasteiz. I feel lighthearted whenever I ride the north-bound train in Spain, and this trip was a mixture of work and pleasure (probably the best trips there are). Pleasure would be provided -as planned- by a Euroleague basketball quarter final game between the local team Baskonia and Maccabi Tel-Aviv, whereas work would imply a meeting at the Eusko Herriko Unibertsitatea (the local university).

Work and pleasure arising together in the same sentence incidentally brings to my mind some theory by Susan Sontag on compulsive photographing by tourists I read about a few weeks ago. As opposite to stressed holidaymakers (mainly from Japan and Germany, says the wikipedia article) who will feel guilty for not being at work and compensate their idleness by taking pictures on a sort of working scheme, I did take but one single picture along the trip.



This sculpture is displayed at the University Library entrance hall, and the figures in it are quite odd, with those big heads ans slim bodies. I'm short of references at the moment, but what comes to me is the outer-space creatures Tim Burton designed for Mars Attacks! (even if it's quite a long time since I last saw that movie and I'm not sure I do properly remember the funny attackers, other than when they disintegrate the U.S. President).

So what's special about the sculpture itself? First, the fact it had no label attached, so it was impossible to know who the actual artist was, or its title. I later tried finding it on an online compilation of open air sculptures in Vitoria -which are both ubiquitous and occasionally quite brilliant- but this particular sculpture is within the Library building, so it won't be featured in the collection of open air works. Any help from potential readers as to identify the work of art and its author would therefore be greatly appreciated.

Second special thing about this sculpture. While I was taking the picture shown above, a young student told me on passing by, that "the artist wouldn't like the way the sculpture was displayed". She kind of surprised me - I wasn't even able to react quickly enough -one does eventually grow used to one's own slo-mo reaction schedule and learns with time to take things easy despite all- to propose buying her a coffee in order to learn more about why she had said that. I mean, she seemed either to be a close acquaintance of the artist's or quite anxious for someone to buy her a coffee.

And third special thing about the work was it caught my eye for it strongly reminded me of some of Juan Munoz's best pieces. There was a recent retrospective exhibition on the author at MNCARS -aka Sofidou- in Madrid, and there were some impressive group sculptures on display - managed to retrieve a couple of pictures taken on the occasion.



It's not that this particular sculpture at the Library comes close to Munoz's best achievents -as one cannot walk around the standing figures, for instance, and that's what the young lady's remark may have meant- but it is indeed an outstanding piece of sculpture. Could be called 'The invaders' - and that would make it funny as well-

Cierta sensación de hastío

  Cuando miro las jetas de los tipos que se sientan en la mesa de representantes de Sortu no puedo evitar la impresión de que son los mismos de siempre con las mismas aviesas intenciones de siempre. Eso, y el hecho de que continúo teniendo la incontenible sensación de que mi coche va a estallar en el aire cuando arranque el contacto una de cada dos veces que me subo en él, me hacen albergar ciertas dudas respecto a la conveniencia o no de apostar por dar un paso mas en la estrategia de reintegración social de los elementos mas díscolos y potencialmente peligrosos en el actual panorama político vasco.

Sin embargo, la servidumbre de los medios de comunicación de masas ante una estrategia de finalización del escenario armado que se asemeja a una convergencia asintótica a su objetivo (jamás alcanzada por mucho que se avance por el correspondiente eje) me provoca dudas aun mayores sobre el daño que potencialmente se está inflingiendo a la salud democrática de este (pobre) país. El pensamiento único que sistemáticamente se impone -y que se incrementó en su sistemática imposición hasta extremos casi delirantes durante el periodo de administración popular de la nación (corrió insistentemente el rumor durante el festival de cine internacional de San Sebastian de que se suspenderían las proyecciones previstas de 'La pelota vasca' por la presunta apología del diálogo que encerraba el documental, no me hablen de censura por favor)- es tan extraordinariamente dañino para la salud mental de la ciudadanía (una palabra, la de ciudadanía, que se evita cuidadosamente en los informativos, vaya usted a saber por qué) como productivo para el arrinconamiento de cualquier opción de izquierdas mínimamente combativa que pueda surgir en estos tiempos convulsos, mire usted por dónde. La asimilación con impresentables bandas terroristas no deja de ser una estrategia sumamente rentable en términos de contención de eventuales movimientos de protesta violenta, que no hay más que mirar de reojo la situación de la sociedad griega (a a penas tres casillas de distancia en el monopoly global en el que parece haber devenido la antaño respetable geografía económica) para ver que no es impensable que las protestas pudieran extenderse según el modelo Norte de África a una sociedad agobiada por un nivel de paro y una mala situación económica que no se prevé enderezar en los próximos meses, años ni quizá décadas, dicen los agoreros, ni siquera con la llegada a la administración de los asuntos públicos de aquéllos que -según sus propias declaraciones, no se conocen otras fuentes que lo afirmen- se encuentran en posesión de las recetas para solucionar los problemas actuales.

Aunque es cierto que la estrategia de unidad a ultranza tiene su vertiente positiva (al menos en un -aparentemente único- aspecto hay una clara voluntad de 'hacer país' por parte de los partidos mayoritarios), se trata una situación irregular. A nadie se le escapa (a nadie que no ponga por delante sus anteojeras ideológicas, esto es) que la naturaleza del conflicto es política y que la solución al mismo deberá ser también política, al menos en cierta medida. No estamos hablando de delincuentes comunes, véase Tribunal de Derechos Humanos de las Comunidades Europeas, sentencia reciente sobre injurias a la Corona. Se puede argumentar desde una óptica de pensamiento único que los dos altos tribunales nacionales han expresado su disconformidad con la sentencia, pero suena más bien a excusa ad hoc para tapar el bochornoso ridículo de determinadas instancias judiciales patrias en lo que atañe a la imagen de la Corona. Por lo demás, en cuanto a la ingeniosa descripción como 'el jefe de los torturadores' del monarca, lo más sensato que cabría recomendar al autor del hallazgo es que considere la posibilidad de abandonar el ejercicio de la política para buscar acomodo entre la plantilla del semanario 'El jueves'.

Se trata de una situación irregular, decíamos: no hay duda de que las víctimas del terrorismo tienen todo el derecho a recibir el reconocimiento de la sociedad en su conjunto con tantos homenajes como se estime conveniente convocar. Otra cosa muy distinta -radicalmente distinta- es invocar al colectivo de víctimas del terrorismo como guía en el ejercicio de la política antiterrorista. Lejos de ser un reconocimiento, este ejercicio (tan frecuente en según qué discursos políticos al uso) entra dentro de la más burda manipulación política de un movimiento que se rige en principio por unos objetivos de superación del dolor y de obtención de las compensaciones oportunas según estipule el derecho penal. Seguir las directrices de un presunto colectivo de afectados (que en realidad suele limitarse a un número de ellos con aspiraciones con triste frecuencia más allá de las expresadas) de cualquier conflicto (y pienso en el caso del aceite de colza, que no es tan ajeno en términos de práctica criminal al terrorismo, por mucho que su repercusión mediática -evidentemente uno de los quids de la cuestión- haya sido notablemente inferior en términos de extensión temporal) no se atiene a las normas legales de procedimiento en estos casos. Hay unos tribunales, hay una autoridad civil, y hay unos políticos que pueden explotar hasta cierto punto las situaciones conflictivas para su batalla diaria por los márgenes de las encuestas de opinión. Sin embargo la ética política no debería arrinconarse completamente en estos casos. Cabe suponer que procesos como los que condujeron al acuerdo de Stormont son objeto de análisis en las facultades de ciencias políticas (perdonen que lo escriba con minúscula) de este país. Cierto es que los políticos actualmente en ejercicio son quizá demasiado talludos como para haber asistido a uno de esos (presumibles) análisis, pero todos esos discursos de que no es posible la neutralidad recuerdan a los pobres argumentos probelicistas con que nos obsequiaron (nos insultaron, cabría decir más propiamente) administraciones que están en la memoria de todos y no precisamente por sus logros. Una cierta neutralidad -la de sentirse asqueado casi por igual por ambos bandos- no sólo es perfectamente posible, sino incluso deseable en términos de realizar un análisis correcto de la situación.

Concluyendo: doctores tiene la iglesia y ellos decidirán sobre la conveniencia o no de autorizar según qué movimientos en el escenario político, sin que presiones por parte de unos u otros sectores (que previsiblemente irán a más conforme se acerque el momento del veredicto) vayan presumiblemente a afectar en exceso las deliberaciones de los afectados. Pero la salud mental del país agradecería sobremanera en todo caso un avance del proceso en su conjunto que saque a sus cuidadanos, sus medios de comunicación y sus políticos por este orden del impasse ya demasiado largo en el que actualmente se encuentra. El colorido espectáculo del comercio no es suficientemente vistoso como para tapar las deficiencias estructurales en el funcionamiento del sistema político-judicial con relación a este asunto, mal que les pese a algunos liberalotes. Para el resto de espectadores desinformados, el juego se reduce a gritar consignas antivascas desde los fondos de los estadios o a utilizar el terrorismo como argumento en amistosas descalificaciones del tipo si sabes hablar alemán, lo primero que te llamaré en cuanto tenga ocasión será nazi. Amistosos exabruptos producto de la más ramplona ignorancia a evitar en la medida de lo posible (tanto los exabruptos como sobre todo ignorancia, de proporciones oceánicas ésta última entre nosotros). Una cuestión de pura salud mental pues, descontando el hecho de que estrategias prolongadas de situación excepcional para la eliminación de elementos subversivos (por llamarlos de alguna manera) no funcionan bien a largo plazo, ver régimen anterior, y no salen gratis a las sociedades. De ninguna manera salen gratis.

Let them entertain us?

After being brought to the verge of exhaustion by reading thousands of articles and listening to endless discussions on doping, I'm suddenly very glad to come across this short blogpost at The Punch Australia which tries to propose a legal doping system under strict medical surveillance. That is of course till I find the post argument is completely wrong.

There are some good sentences there that I can't help posting into my facebook account: "It would be much easier to eliminate the anti-doping rules than to eliminate doping". Or: "The prohibition on doping puts pressure on making performance-enhancers undetectable, rather than safe". Or: "Rather than drive doping underground, the use of drugs should be permitted under medical supervision". Crystal clear statements that are usually out of the daily discourse by the media and the sports authorities.

But on the day news break of Riccardo Ricco being brought into hospital for allegedly having a self-inflicted 25-day old blood transfusion delivered after a two-year suspension for doping (with some delicious comments by his so-called trademates) one would expect something a bit -just a bit- more serious than a piece of reflection called "Let them entertain us". The whole approach -sign of the times- is biased towards entertainment, taking the spectator's view - the one from the Roman circus, one should fear. Just wondering who the lions are?

Revenues, that's what - no hard guess. TV shows, ads, race organisers, ICU moguls, French sport ministers are just (bad) actors in a supporting role. It's the bloody broadcasting system (anyone thought on taxing football crazy transfers for goodness sake instead of selling national forests?). It seems there have not been enough dead riders. The circus must go on. The ones biting the dust are cheaters, and doctors involved are a shame for the profession. Well, it shouldn't be that difficult to see sports journalists are the main cheaters here. Someone dies? A couple of homages, a handful of tears and let's get on to the new promises. TV corporations should get a two-week closure for every dead sportsman - that would perhaps start changing things.

The argument here goes around sportsmen and -women's health. Other than critisizing the evil former GDR and USSR sports systems -nowadays it's China- there could be a honest effort to reflect on the own flaws. But there are hard times for journalism these days and everyone around has a mortgage to deal with. It's so damn easy besides to follow the yellow path (take a couple of shots from angry colleagues, get some mogul on tape and that's that, a piece of brave journalism). Once there brave people in the media - now all you get is this very same people, white haired and happy not to have to start out in this awful circumstances, interviewed on double-page specials as to encourage their poor succesors.

I don't see why the real mates won't go on strike for the whole season. Let the journalists do the climbings. Let Mr McQuaid do the 200+ kms every day plus the climbings. That would be a good race to broadcast - by ukaze. The tax on crazy football transfers may well pay the well-deserved salaries (if it were just for bearing with so much hypocrisy).

Please do get better Riccardo, and do write on the issue (a book if possible, not interviews) - not revenging, nor apologising. Just the way it goes. Why is bloody wikileaks ignoring the real problems in democracies and just dealing with politics instead?

Antes de atravesar el Leteo, compruebe que no viene ningún coche

Para una amiga que aún no me ha contado

Me encuentro estos días ingresado en el madrileño Hospital de La Princesa como consecuencia de una inoportuna trombosis (días enteros llevo dándole vueltas a la cuestión de si en otro contexto podrá decirse "una oportuna trombosis"). A pesar de llevar sólo unos días aquí, puedo percibir el agobio derivado de la permanencia forzosa entre cuatro paredes. El mismo día de mi ingreso una de mis primeras preguntas al personal sanitario que me atiende de manera irreprochable fue si había wi-fi disponible en el Hospital (pese a saber por el memorable post que hace unos meses publicó José Luis González Quirós en su blog que los hospitales, incluso los privados, no son un lugar propicio para hallar semejantes moderneces).

Por fortuna y gracias a la nunca bien ponderada ayuda de la compañera llegó a mis manos un modem usb, uno de esos cacharritos que andan meses agarrando polvo en una estantería de la casa. La compañera se ocupó -bendita sea- de que el invento llegara ya precargado y listo para utilizar, y gracias a ello puedo atravesar ad libitum las paredes de éste y otros edificios y comunicarme sin que la visión de la factura del teléfono móvil me cause nuevas afecciones.

Aparte de tratar de planificar en escenas una secuencia en que la wi-fi disponible en el hospital haría que todos los enfermos permanecieran absortos en sus ordenadores portátiles haciendo caso omiso de enfermeras, médicos y visitas presentes o ausentes, una de las grandes preocupaciones que me aquejan desde mi llegada al recinto es cómo apañármelas para mantener -bien que reducida a la mínima expresión- mi inveterada afición a fumar un cigarrillo de vez en cuando y compaginarla con la recién entrada en vigor ley -perdón, Ley- del tabaco. Sobre todo teniendo en cuenta que a los inquilinos con pijama azul no les está permitido abandonar el recinto si no van acompañados (una curiosa política sobre la que trataré de indagar en los días que me resten de estancia en el centro hospitalario).

Una opción evidente sería deshacerse del mencionado pijama azul, pero esto, aparte de tener poco mérito, no resulta tan sencillo en los primeros días de ingreso. Por otro lado, ventanas no faltan en salas poco concurridas o desiertas para abrirlas y, asomado al espléndido paisaje que se divisa desde la décima planta de un céntrico edificio, apurar el vicio antes de regresar, dedos y uniforme exhalando un culpable aroma, al redil con una sonrisa.

Lo más agradable no obstante, es lograr salir a la puerta principal del edificio para inhalar unas bocanadas del increíblemente contaminado aire de la capital (estos días en particular superados todos los límites de polución que establecen los organismos internacionales). Qué espléndido poder sentarse en un banco y respirar el aire frío de enero, limpio o asqueroso de aerosoles y compuestos cancerígenos, tanto da (al fin y al cabo se trata de salir a fumar, qué diantre). Aunque haya que alejarse veinte metros -un pequeño suplicio en las actuales circunstancias- de la puerta del recinto.

Y es desde esta puerta del recinto -a cuyo costado a veces se apresura uno a apurar unas rápidas caladas temeroso de que salga el guardia de seguridad a recriminarle el pijama azul y el incumplimiento de la norma- desde donde esta tarde he tenido ocasión de divisar alguno de los comercios que pueblan la acera de enfrente del hospital. Era tan interesante la sucesión de nombres sobre las puertas principales que no he podido resistirme a tomar una fotografía.

En primer lugar, el estanco, justo enfrente de la puerta del hospital. Es sabido que el gremio de los galenos alberga entre sus filas -oh contradicción- alguno de los más fervientes practicantes del nefando vicio (habiendo perdido hoy día la sodomía su carácter y prestigio de vicio nefando, es posible que el tabaco pueda reemplazarlo si continúan las intervenciones legislativas en la línea actual). El estanco es a las almas lo que la farmacia que se yergue a su costado es a los cuerpos, y no es preciso que ninguno de los dos establecimientos se encuentre de guardia para que su mera visión le reconforte a uno el espíritu pensando que para cualquier urgencia no tiene más que cruzar la calle.

Junto a la farmacia hay un pequeño establecimiento de una compañía telefónica -casualmente la que proporciona el acceso a la Red que me permitirá publicar estas líneas una vez que se adecenten un poco- que esta siempre cerrado. Y al lado de la persiana permanentemente bajada hay un comercio cuyo cartel proclama sin rubor 'Servicios funerarios'. La visión del cartel negro con letras blancas sobre el amplio escaparate desde las escaleras del hospital da pie al chiste fácil entre las acompañantes del fumador ("las fumadoras pasivas", en términos de la legalidad vigente). Nuestro fumador -un filosofo de lo cotidiano bajo el efecto de ciertas experiencias vividas en los pasillos de su planta- se queda por contra pensando en lo incierto del traverso del Leteo para todos aquellos que portan el pijama azul. Reflexionando sobre el símil entre la calle Diego de León y el Leteo -un paisaje en el que el candidato a recibir la moneda bajo la lengua sería en buena lógica el guardia de seguridad de la puerta del hospital que impide salir a los pobres internos que no llevan acompañante de algún otro color distinto al azul- nuestro fumador concluye que mejor mirar bien en todo caso antes de cruzar la calle Leteo, y que a ser posible mejor por el semáforo.

A few hours at Nostromo-Gatwick

The reason why so many new posts got published the same day is a few hour stay at a Yotel Japanese-like cabin at Gatwick airport after missing the morning Ryanair flight to Madrid. While the next flight arrived I got myself into this underwater environment out of sheer curiosity - and was awarded a free wi-fi connection so I'm updating a few pending posts...



Lights are so dim and full of purples, pinks, pale greens and light blues here it's kind of a spaceship-like experience (actually 2001-inspired I'd say). No-one around, total silence except for the soft, regular air conditioning blowing, it's just the right place for all these fantasies coming to haunt you...



Was looking for Liutenant Ripley around the corners, but she seems to be on duty. Dommage...



By the way isn't Nostromo a much properer name for this place than Yotel? It was probably taken already though.