(Mississippi, USA/Hungary)... The tourist brochures state that Robert Johnson, the King of the Delta Blues Guitarists, is “buried” in two places. After driving several kilometres west of Greenwood, Mississippi, I reached a small road that passes through the tiny town of Itta Bena. Long lines of fields ploughed in parallel lines permit the imagination to picture gangly, stooped cotton pickers; after another eight kilometres the road crosses a flat concrete bridge spanning an algae-covered pond full of snapping turtles.
A dirt track to the right leads to the Payne Baptist Chapel, behind which is a large patch of grass with 30 or so graves. After some searching, a flat tombstone marking Robert Johnson's final resting place was found beneath wind-blown straw. A simple epitaph reads: “Resting in the Blues.” Deserted, remote, poor, magical — some adjectives that could well describe Quito, Mississippi, a hamlet so small that on most maps it is not marked.
On the other side of the bridge is a run-down shack, and from this a motley family emerged, the young children wearing nothing from the waist down. This shack was formerly the Three Forks general store, where a jealous husband poisoned Johnson for supposedly cheating with his wife. That was in August 1938, when Johnson was 27 years old. Since that murderous day, the store has been physically moved to the main road — such as it is, dust and all, some three kilometres from its original spot. The original store sign is now in the Delta Blues Museum in Clarksdale, 150 kilometres to the north, which also changed location some five years ago.
There is some dispute amongst Blues historians as to whether Quito or the Mt. Zion Baptist Church in Morgan City, five kilometres farther south on the same road, is the actual burial site of Robert Johnson. This church, though in better condition than the chapel, is equally remote. Commissioned by Robert Johnson's record company — which, with other labels, must have made millions of dollars from the record sales of numerous Blues legends, without, in most cases, paying their estates much in the way of recompense — the memorial lists his complete discography, which was recorded in only three sessions. Romantics will prefer Robert Johnson buried at Quito, I feel, but both sites give a fair impression of his resting at the edge of the world. I was listening to Robert Johnson as I travelled through Hungary two years ago.
I had no Hungarian music with me, save for an album by Musikas, featuring the voice of Marta Sebestyen, performing interpretations of Béla Bartók compositions. I'd played that one several times, so I went back to Johnson as I drove along the Danube Bend, where a certain something reminded me of the Mississippi. Communities along these two great rivers almost appear as though they do not fully exist. The rivers dominate, the villages and towns beg permission daily to be there. The castle at Visegrád overlooks a broad sweep of the river, but more than that I enjoyed the huge forests behind that dwarfed this imposing edifice. Built in the 13th century, the castle reached its height during the reign of Hungary's King Matthias Corvinus, and a pleasant museum — the papier-mâché peasants were very tacky — exists in its central tower. For a hundred years in the 15th and 16th centuries, the castle was in Turkish hands, but I think I would have preferred my luck with them, rather than the spa attendants I met at the nearby Hotel Silvanus.
It is interesting to note that Visegrád lent its name to a political movement set up to foster improved relationships between Central European countries. Formed in 1991, the Visegrád Group involved the leaders of Hungary, József Antall; the Czech Republic, Václav Havel, and of Poland, Lech Walesa. The ceremony marking this friendship was conducted at the castle and mirrored a similar pact held in 1335 that was attended by Antall, Václav and Walesa's predecessors, Charles Robert, King of Hungary; John of Luxembourg, King of Bohemia, and Casimir III, King of Poland.

(Mali)...I have written in previous entries only of places that I have been to, but a few days ago I went to a concert by Malian couple Amadou and Mariam (http://www.amadou-mariam.com), who both come from the Mali's capital Bamako, and that had me thinking again of at last visiting that sub-Saharan nation.
The show was wonderful, and they sounded themselves, rather than sounding similar to world music star Manu Chao (http://www.manuchao.net), who produced their last record and filled it with his trademark sound affects and jaunty chord changes. I have read several books about the place. The best by far is Mungo Park’s Travels in the Interior Districts of Africa: Performed in the Years 1795, 1796, and 1797, printed in 1816, which chronicles his trip to the fabled, out-of-bounds city of Timbuktu, which, of course, even today remains a Holy Grail for travellers. Park, who was born in Selkirkshire (now part of the Scottish county of The Borders, in 1771, was one of several explorers who went to Mali but never came back, usually the result of being murdered, or in Park’s case, drowned as he tried to escape would-be murderers.
Ali Farka Touré, the musician who died earlier this year, also comes from Mali, from the town of Niafounke, which is approximately 150 kilometres southeast of Timbuktu on the River Niger.
I might have to go there. I do not suppose my Malian plans would differ from anyone else’s. As there is a definite gringo trail in, for example, Peru, I do not see why there is not the same in Mali. I would start in Bamako (indeed, would have to, from the country’s only international airport) and make my way up to Ségou. I believe it is here that the boats — or in drier seasons, the pirogues — start for trips along the mighty Niger.
Mopti is the first major stop, and from there it is possible to double back along a Niger tributary called the Bani to the city of Djenne, famous for its fortified mud mosques. After reaching Mopti again, I would, I think, continue to Naifounke and lastly Timbukto, where travellers today are afforded a much warmer welcome.
The other side trip would be to the Dogon people along the Bandiagara Escarpment, a highly evolved community with amazing architecture carved from cliff faces. Much is made — and quite rightly so — of their worship of an almost imperceptible dwarf star that remained unknown to Western astronomers for centuries. It is called Po Tolo in the local tongue, Sirius B to Westerners, and it travels around the much, much brighter Sirius A; supposedly, aliens brought it to them. Every 60 years they hold a festival to mark its orbital return to the sky above them.
Travel to this region never is straight forward and is hardly just a question of merely floating down the Niger; I am sure that delays and problems are the norm. The other “path” is the rail line from Bamako to Kayes and on to Dakar in Senegal. Kayes is the home town of another Malian musician, Boubacar Traore (http://www.concertedefforts.com/artists_boub.html), who was featured in the 2005 documentary I’ll Sing for You, which I remember highlighted a photo of Traore in 1963 looking like a cross between Elvis Presley and Chuck Berry (who, incidentally, I once saw sitting in the lobby of the Convent of the Sacred Heart School on East 91st Street in New York City, where, I believe, his daughter schooled and, I know, where my running club used to get changed before Tuesday night work outs).
Traore's big hit at the time was a song called Mall Twist, although the idea of Mali having malls today, not alone 40 years ago, is difficult to fathom. My friend Michele from Milan travels to Mali often. He has the advantage of being fluent in France; his father lived in Bamako for several years and started up an impressive collection of tribal artifacts, which Michele is continuing. Another dream trip would be to carry on from Mali and go into Niger. For years I have seen photographs of the Wodaabe people from Niger, who paint their faces in bright colours and put kohl or some other such substance around their eyes so as to exaggerate the eyes’ whiteness.
This is done to become more attractive to the watching eyes of potential wives. Sinewy and tall, the young Wodaabe jump up and down in courtship rituals when all brought together during the annual salt-selling market. I believe this all happens around the town of In Gall in northwestern Niger, but evidently I shall have to be better informed. Travelling around this region of the world obviously demands great attention and respect. The sun pounded down on the outdoor stage where I watched Amadou and Mariam, a foretaste of what one might expect when actually in Africa. July in New York City gets very warm and extremely humid, especially if you decide to dance for three hours away from the shade.
Second on the bill was Daby Toure (http://realworldrecords.com/dabytoure; no relation; it appears a common surname of West African musicians; indeed, he was in a duo called Toure-Toure), whose ancestors come from Kayes but who was born in Mauritania and grew up in Senegal; before him played French DJ quartet Birdy Nam Nam (http://www.birdynamnam.com), who I liked for the first 25 minutes but then wanted to stop after it became obvious to all what it was they did, that was, reproducing the instruments of a band with the manipulations of records on turntables.