White Mam(b)a sostiene io sia un uomo fortunato (vedi questo post e quest’altro): in questo, lo ammetto, ha ragione. La mia vita e il mio lavoro mi espongono a una tale diversità, in così tanti luoghi del mondo, che mi sembra quasi di percepire delle costanti nel caos, e un disegno comune.

Oggi, però, sono particolarmente fortunato: ho visitato per la seconda volta in vita mia la Shwedagon Pagoda, che con i suoi oltre 100 metri di altezza, interamente ricoperta da lamine d’oro, domina dalla collina di Singuttara l’intera città di Yangon in Birmania (Myanmar, lo so, ma non mi ci abituo). Conserva le reliquie di quattro Buddha: resti delle tonache di Kakusandha e di Koṇagamana, una tazza di Kassapa, e, cosa più sacra in assoluto, 8 capelli di Gautama, il primo Buddha, il Siddhartha.

Secondo la leggenda la Pagoda venne fondata intorno al 600bC, dandole quindi oggi circa 2.600 anni e facendone il più antico tempio buddista: due fratelli mercanti incontrarono Siddartha, e ricevettero in dono 8 dei suoi capelli, che portarono in un reliquiario d’oro al re del Burma, Okkalapa. Quando il re, salito sulla collina di Singuttara, aprì la scatola che conteneva le reliquie, “accaddero fatti incredibili”.

… There was a tumult among men and spirits, rays emitted by the Hairs penetrated up to the heavens above and down to hell, the blind beheld objects, the deaf heard sounds, the dumb spoke distinctly, the earth quaked, the winds of the ocean blew, Mount Meru shook, lightning flashed, gems rained down until they were knee deep, all trees of the Himalayas, though not in season, bore blossoms and fruit ….” Blasfemamente lasciatemi immaginare una versione bollywood dell’Apocalisse insomma.

Nel 1889, Rudyard Kipling, visitando il paese, scrisse nei suoi diari: “.. Then, a golden mystery upheaved itself on the horizon, a beautiful winking wonder that blazed in the sun, of a shape that was neither Muslim dome nor Hindu temple-spire. It stood upon a green knoll, and below it were lines of warehouses, sheds, and mills. Under what new god, thought I, are we irrepressible English sitting now? ..” ed è questa l’immagine che io penso lui abbia visto …

shwe dagon 16


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It has been more than fifty years since I began traveling across the world — and the seven seas — for work or for pleasure, always with a Leica M camera close at hand. The camera has never been an accessory; it has been a constant companion, a way of observing, remembering, and making sense of the places and people I encountered along the way. I started keeping this kind of journal some time ago, not as a diary in the traditional sense, but as a space where images and words could meet. This is not a publication driven by schedules or algorithms. At times I disappear for long stretches; then, inevitably, I return with semi-regular updates. Publishing, for me, is a mirror of my state of mind and emotions. It follows my rhythm, not the other way around. You have to take it exactly as it comes. Every photograph you see here is mine. They are fragments of a life spent moving, looking, and waiting for moments to reveal themselves — often quietly, sometimes unexpectedly. This blog is not about destinations, but about presence. About what remains when the journey slows down and the shutter finally clicks.

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