Oman

Oman. Today is the Sultan’s Birthday, and thus Oman’s national day! Oman, yes, on the southeast coast of the Arabian peninsula. Oh, as well as the main part of Oman, there are two enclaves—Madha, and Musandam, separated from the main body of the country by Emirati territory.

Islam reached Oman during Muhammad’s lifetime, and by the mid-eighth century Omanis had developed Ibadhism, which remains the majority sect in Oman. I had to admit I don’t know much about the different branches of Islam—I read that Ibadhism is described as moderate conservatism, emphasising a mixture of austerity and peace. It’s going on my list of things I want to read more about.

Also, the Portuguese occupied Muscat for 140 years in the 16th-17th centuries. Apparently there are still remnants of their architectural style around the place. There were a few other intruders, but since the late 18th century the country has remained self-governing.

It was in 2003 that universal suffrage was granted for citizens over twenty-one. Prior to this, very Omanis could vote. The head of state is the sultan—a hereditary slot—but there is now also an elected advisory council. When the 2003 election took place, 74 percent of those registered votes, and of the 84 seats, two were filled by women. (That’s not a criticism—I think it’s a good thing that even in that first open election women were placed in positions of power.)

Yes, it’s mostly desert. Oh! I love a desert! It is, to be more specific, a gravel desert plain that covers most of central Oman. There are mountains in the north. The problem with desert countries? Water. There’s not a lot of renewable water resources, and most of this goes to agriculture. Soil salinity, beach pollution… Oh! water, water!

Today’s Omani poem is from A Crack in the Wall: New Arab Poetry. It’s by Saif al-Rahbi. Enjoy!

Steps

I walk, I feel under my feet
a sky, trembling with all its victims,
and on my head, an earth
that has stopped rotating.

I hear a thunder of steps behind me,
steps of people coming
from the past,
silent as if they are dead.
Past, retreat a while,
let me finish today’s walk.

—Saif al-Rahbi
from A Crack in the Wall: New Arab Poetry
translated from the Arabic by Abdulla as-Harrasi

Morocco

Ah, Morocco. I have a number of friends who have been there. I haven’t only been to Melbourne’s Moroccan Soup Bar. (Boy, have I been there! It’s been far too long since I got to enjoy a chickpea bake… a devastating lack!) So, sitting on the other side of the Strait of Gibraltar, there it is. Happy Independence Day, Morocco!

Morocco’s been inhabited for quite a while—at least 10,000 years, apparently. And in the classical world, Morocco was pat of that Mediterranean world as trading colonies popped up—these were set up by the Phoenicians, and the Berbers were also still around. In the seventh century, the first Islamic conquest of North Africa swept into Morocco—and what has become Morocco today was a region of Berbers influenced by Arabs. Obviously that Arabic cultural influence remains.

And the rest of the world? Well, interestingly Morocco was the first country to recognise the USA’s independence, back in 1777. In December of the same year Morocco’s Sultan declared that American merchant ships enjoyed the protection of the sultanate, and not long after this the Moroccan-American Treaty of Friendship was put in place. This is America’s oldest intact friendship treaty. Who knew?

While Europeans did arrive along the coast in the fifteenth century, they didn’t make much headway inland. It wasn’t until the 19th century, though, that Europe really got in on the action—France showed its interest in Morocco as a whole back in 1830, and in the 20th century the UK recognised France’s “sphere of influence” in Morocco In 1906 there was a formalisation of European relations: France and Spain were entrusted jointly with policing the country.

Independence? Well, the country gained its independence from France on 2 March 1956, and a month later, on 7 April, Spain relinquished its protectorate too. This being the case, I’m not entirely sure why 18 November is Independence Day.

Incidentally, Western Sahara is a territory that is largely under Moroccan control—control is disputed by the Sahwari Arab Democratic Republic, a partially recognised states that claims sovereignty over the whole territory. An unfortunate outcome of the conflict regarding Western Sahara is that there have been severe human rights abuses in the region, including displacement of Sahrawi civilians, and the expulsion of Moroccan civilians from Algeria, who back the Sahrawi government.

Today’s pome is by Hassan Najmi, and comes from A Crack in the Wall: New Arab Poetry.

The exiled

To Abbas

Their palms are coffins
and their heads are hats for distant clouds.
And behind them there is time
without flowerpots
 or arms

They had left.
And leaving itself returned.
And still they did not come back. 

— Hassan Najmi
from A Crack in the Wall: New Arab Poetry
translated from the Arabic by Khaled Mattawa

The West Bank and Gaza

The West Bank. Gaza. No, it’s not a country—that’s part of the point, right? Both are claimed as part of the Palestinian territories, but their political status has been the subject of constant back-and-forth. Nonetheless, today marks the anniversary of the day 1988 when the Palestine National Council declared the independent state of Palestine—and it’s a holiday in Gaza and the West Bank. 15 November. While an official status has yes to be decided, let’s mark it.

These days the administration of the territories is split—Hamas controls Gaza, and the Palestinian National Authority is still administering the West Bank. This of course complicates this situation further, as neither recognizes the authority of the other. In the mean time, there’s also the question of whether or not Israel can annex sections of the territories.

Know the Green Line? That’s the generally accepted boundary between the West Bank and the Gaza Strip, and the State of Israel. Where does it come from? From the 1949 Armistice Agreements, which ended the 1948 Arab-Israeli War. At that time they were specifically labelled armistice lines and not international borders.

Oh—and the flag? In 1967 Israel banned the Palestinian flag. Since 1993 the ban has been relaxed, but that doesn’t mean it’s gone.

And human history? I feel like I can’t even go there! Remembering is so long.

Instead I’m going to get straight to the poem. By Waleed Khazendar. “A needle and angels.”


A needle and angels

Not only this evening
but usually, about this time, the trees slacken:
when we come closer to the waves
and the lights are lost in darkness
and the sun becomes a red island at the end of the sea.

It is not only when you reach a hand to me
and adjust—at about this time—my collar,
that I remember I am distracted and distant
and that I still keep the lights on
afraid of my grandmother’s ghoul,
but also when I stray in your hands
as you line demons on my pillow
and mend my buttons
with thread and needle and angels.

—Waleed Khazendar
from A Crack in the Wall: New Arab Poetry (2001)
translated by Khaled Mattawa

Saint-Martin and Sint Maarten

Once more—for the final time—we are in a holding pattern on 11 November.


11 November is Saint Martin’s day: it’s the feast day of Martin of Tours, and is the day that the French territory of Saint-Martin and the Dutch Sint Maarten—that share the island of Saint Martin in the Caribbean—jointly share. Happy Saint Martin’s Day!

So the island is, as mentioned, divided between the French and the Dutch. The Dutch side has a larger population (50,000) than the French (35,000). Population density is pretty intense—especially when you add in the fact that about 1 million people visit the island a year.

So, Columbus actually claimed the island first. And yes, it was Columbus that named it Isla de San Martin. In 1624 the French started to cultivate tobacco in the French Quarter, while a few years later, in 1631, the Dutch started to collect salt. In the years from 1633 to 1647 the Spanish began to build a military fort, but then destroyed it and left the island. The French and Dutch zones were first settled on in 1648.

Then there was a bit of a period of jumping around—the French occupy it all. The Dutch occupy it all. Occasionally the British take a turn. And then from 1816, the French and Dutch zones resumed.

The Dutch officially adopted the spelling “Sint Maarten” in 1936, and more recently Sint Maarten signed an agreement with the Netherlands on status aparte. On the French side of the equation, in 2007 Saint-Martin became a separate overseas collectivity.

Oh—and the division of the island? Apparently there are stories about it, including a popular story that involves a race deciding the matter. As in, each community chose a representative, and they had to walk across the island from different points. (They weren’t allowed to run.) Where they met, a line was drawn across the island, connecting their starting point with their meeting point. Okay, that sounds crazy. But I love it. Apparently the French side is larger because the French guy moved faster than the Dutch. There’s also a claim that the French guy drank wine before and the Dutch guy drank beer… and the “restorative qualities” of the wine let the Frenchman walk faster. Yeah. I don’t think so either.

I found today’s poem online here. It’s by Lasana M Sekou. Enjoy!

worker island

i did not see lantau island
the buddha brilliant regime in sun
lighting the way where tourists stray
to shake sticks at their future
for a fated read of each of the same other difference
but cynthia say,
            there is a fishing village beyond the fray
            where  older heads pear out bamboo windows
                        children ride bicycles too
the sea and the scene is this
what we all see to be seen
as pierced longing and longing
eternally at each other’s side
  
and we are always with people …

—Lasana M. Sekou

Angola

So, it’s still 11 November, if you don’t mind…

Which means it’s also Angola’s Independence Day. You remember Angola? On the Southwest coast of Africa, just north of Namibia, also bordering the Democratic Republic of the Congo and Zambia. Angola had a relatively long colonial period—the Portuguese claimed it as a colony in the 16th century, and it didn’t gain its independence until 1975. While its people are some of the poorest on the African continent, the country is a large producer of petroleum and diamonds—the second largest in Africa. A lot of money has disappeared. Having trouble getting an idea of the size of the place? It’s about twice as big as Texas.

Angola is another region where the Bantu spread. Prior to the arrival of the Bantu people, the region was inhabited by Khoisan hunter-gatherers. Still, some Khoisan remain, even to the present day.

And the Portuguese? In 1483 they established relations with the region, and Angola was a link for trade between Europe and Asia. The explorer Paulo Dias de Novais founded the capital Luanda in 1575—and so it goes. Angola was also a serious participant in the slave trade.

There was a brief interruption of the Portuguese presence with the Dutch occupation of Luanda from 1641 to 1648, but things went back to normal. It took a few more centuries before exploration of the interior really got under way, and then the borders were fixed in 1885. Actual administration of the interior didn’t started until the twentieth century—and a quarter of a century before Angola gained its independence, it was designated as an overseas province of Portugal, known as Portuguese West Africa.

And then came the Angolan War of Independence. Following on the heels of this was the Angolan Civil War—which was a real Cold War conflict. With the Eastern Block backing one group (MPLA) and the United States backing another (FNLA) the conflict raged along. The Polish journalist Ryszard Kapuściński writes about this—I seriously recommend his work.) Though the civil war ended in 2002, the country is still living in the aftermath. Most of the internally displaced have returned home, but the situation remains desperate for most of the population.

Today’s poem from Angola is by Jofre Rocha. I believe I found it in the Penguin Book of Modern African Poetry, but I didn’t notes it down when I found the poem. Apologies!

Poem of Return

When I return from the land of exile and silence,
do not bring me flowers.

Bring me rather all the dews,
tears of dawns which witnessed dramas.
Bring me the immense hunger for love
and the plaint of tumid sexes in star-studded night.
Bring me the long night of sleeplessness
with mothers mourning, their arms bereft of sons.

When I return from the land of exile and silence,
no, do not bring me flowers…

Bring me only, just this
the last wish of heroes fallen at day-break
with a wingless stone in hand
and a thread of anger snaking from their eyes.

—Jofre Rocha

Poland

So, first things first. I have been running around like crazy for the past few days, and we now need to pretend that, actually, it’s still Tuesday, still 11 November. Got it? Great, now that that’s covered: happy Independence Day, Poland! This is actually the day on which the formation of Poland was redeclared in 1918—you know, Armistice Day, or, as we Australians think of it, Remembrance Day.

I’ve been in love with Poland for a while—on my one trip to Europe I visited Krakow—and stayed longer than I had thought I would. I still haven’t had a chance to go back, and travel all over. But Krakow is a magical place for me. I read all the books of Ryszard Kapuściński that were then available in English in a week. I lay on the grass outside Wawel castle. I walked all over the city, and around Kazimierz. I fell seriously in love with the Polish poets—especially Zbigniew Herbert and Czesław Miłosz. I looked at art and visited the pharmacology museum and ate the most divine caramel apple. It was like a drug. I also met Ania, a beautiful Polish girl who was my age. It was one of those moments when I recognized myself, in a different context. I’m not always great at asking questions, but I asked Ania a lot. She was a child under communism, and remembered the feeling of hope associated with Solidarity more than the events. When she started high school it was the first year that students could choose to learn English instead of Russian. Everyone chose English. The way she spoke about it, it seemed like there was this real feeling of breaking out.

And people in the west think of Poland as being an Eastern European country. It’s really a Central European place. The Eastern Bloc has really changed our idea of geography. Sometimes its good to go back and stare at the map. Though, yes, it is on the Eastern edge of the European Union as it stands today.

Like other places sandwiched between Germany and Russia, Poland’s been through a lot. And, too, it was the site of the most famous Nazi death camp—Auschwitz Birkenau. It’s startling to visit the Jewish districts of towns that, before World War II, had Jewish populations in the hundreds of thousands—and now claim fewer than a thousand Jewish citizens. They are different places, and their former states are irrecoverable at the same time as they are inescapable.

For me, Poland is all bound up in Ania—she’s one of the people I am most grateful for having met. Having lived at the end of the aftermath of World War II, and the beginning of the post-Communist era, she was still so aware of everything that had changed, had taken it in from her family.

I can’t wait to go back to Poland. To sit alongside the Vistula again.

In the mean time, I continue to read the poets. Like Herbert. His Collected Poems is available now in English. Read him. Please.

Elegy of Fortinbras

for C. M.

Now that we’re alone we can talk prince man to man
though you lie on the stairs and see no more than a dead ant
nothing but black sun with broken rays
I could never think of your hands without smiling
and now that they lie on the stone like fallen nests
they are as defenseless as before The end is exactly this
The hands lie apart The sword lies apart The head apart
and the knight’s feet in soft slippers

You will have a soldier’s funeral without having been a soldier
the only ritual I am acquainted with a little
There will be no candles no singing only cannon-fuses and bursts
      drums drums I know nothing exquisite
those will be my maneuvers before I start to rule
one has to take the city by the neck and shake it a bit

Anyhow you had to perish Hamlet you were not for life
you believed in crystal notions not in human clay
always twitching as if asleep you hunted chimeras
wolfishly you crunched the air only to vomit
you knew no human thing you did not know even how to breathe

Now you have peace Hamlet you accomplished what you had to
and you have peace The rest is not silence but belongs to me
you chose the easier part an elegant thrust
but what is heroic death compared with eternal watching
with a cold apple in one’s hand on a narrow chair
with a view of the ant-hill and the clock’s dial

Adieu prince I have tasks a sewer project
and a decree on prostitutes and beggars
I must also elaborate a better system of prisons
since as you justly said Denmark is a prison
I go to my affairs This night is born
a star named Hamlet We shall never meet
what I shall leave will not be worth a tragedy

It is not for us to greet each other or bid farewell we live on
      archipelagos
and that water these words what can they do what can they do
      prince

—Zbigniew Herbert
from The Vintage Book of Contemporary World Poetry
translated from the Polish by Czesław Miłosz

Cambodia

Today we’re celebrating Cambodia’s Independence Day—the anniversary of Cambodia’s 1953 independence from France. It had been part of French Indochina for a while before that, though had a much longer history without European colonialism. Cambodia was under French control from 1863 to 1953, with a brief interlude of Japanese occupation during World War II.

When I think of Cambodia a few things spring to mind. Pol Pot is automatically one of them, along with landmines and the Killing Fields. For those whose realm is perhaps a little to much on the side of pop culture, there’s Angelina Jolie’s impassioned attitude toward the country, that gave her her first adopted son—oh, and Cambodia also played a part in that classic film (that was sarcasm) Tomb Raider. Okay, so Tomb Raider was not really one for the ages, but Angkor Wat is, by all accounts, spectacular.

On a different note, one thing that really never fails to make me choke up: the 2000 Paralympics Volleyball team from Cambodia. Most teams are of course made up by people disabled through the accidents of modern life—Cambodia’s team was made up of people missing limbs due to landmines. I hope that that story made people think more about the realities of Cambodia. I’ve been talking and thinking a lot about aftermath of late—but with the number of landmines still out there, it seems difficult, even now, to think of it as being “after.”

And if anyone wants to see a wonderful Australian film that tells the stories of a group of refugees coming to Australia, but in particular the story on one Cambodian refugee, then I have to recommend Lucky Miles.

So I mentioned Angkor Wat. It was built in the 12th century—a few centuries later it was sacked by the Thai, which led to its abandonment.

Most of the population is of Khmer ancestry (90%) and even more of the population is Buddhist (95%) even though the religion was suppressed under the Khmer Rouge.

Some of your clothes are probably made in Cambodia.

Today’s poem is by U Sam Oeur—it comes from Language for a New Century, and I believe more of his work is available in English translation. (I believe, in fact, that I shelved one of his books in my advisor’s library the other day…) Read. Enjoy. Find out more.

The Fall of Culture

I hid the precious wealth,
packed the suitcases with milled rice,
packed old clothes, a small scrap-metal oven,
pots, pans, plates, spoons, an ax, a hoe,
some preserved fish in small plastic containers—
loaded it all in a cart and towed it eastward
under the full moon, May ’75,

“O home! Home! The sacred ground where we lived happily,
the heritage built, bit by bit, by my father.
O, the Naga fountain with its seven heads,
preserving our tradition from days gone by,

O, Monument of Independence! O, library! O, books of poetry!
I can never chant the divine poems again!
O, quintessential words of poets!
O, artifacts I can never touch or see again!

O, Phnom Penh! O, pagoda where we worship!
O, Angkor Wat, sublime monument to the
aspirations of our ancient Khmer forefathers.
Ah, I can’t see across those three wildernesses:”

I’ll be nowhere,
I’ll have no night,
I’ll have no day anymore:
I shall be a man without identity.

“Sorrow for the Cambodian women
who were faithful to their lovers;
now they wander without sleep,
any piece of ground their home.
O, rang trees, the spawning grounds,
turned to charred stilts by the Pot-Sary conflagration.
Annihilate the rang trees, the sugar palms
the Khmer Republic!”

There are no more intellectuals, no more professors—
all have departed Phnom Penh, leading children,
bereft, deceived to the last person,
from coolie to king.

—U Sam Oeur
translated from the Khmer by Ken McCullough
from Language for a New Century

Tonga

The Kingdom of Tonga! Today is Tonga’s National Day. Celebrations ensue…

Some things about Tonga:

The capital: Nuku’alofa
The government: Tonga is the only sovereign monarchy in the island nations of the Pacific. Also, a pro-democracy movement, wanting better representation of commoners in the Parliament. House of Commons anyone?
The King: George Tupou V
The Prime Minister: Dr Feleti Sevele
Independence: Tonga is also the only island nation of the Pacific that was never formally colonised, though it was a British Protectorate from 1900until 1970.
The name: Tonga means “south” in Tongan.
Europeans: First the Dutch—in 1616, Willen Schouten and Jacob Le Maire, and in 1643 Abel Tasman. Later, Captain Cook, a few times in the 1770s. Alessandro Malaspina in 1793. Oh, and missionaries.
Land: Cannot be sold to foreigners—though foreigners may lease it.
Agriculture: Well, coconuts, vanilla beans, bananas and root crops are the major money makers.
Diaspora: Many Tongans have headed to Australia, New Zealand and even the US to seek a high standard of living.
Apropos—well, nothing: Apparently Tongan women are known to be skilful jugglers.

And yes, there are poets in this corner of the Pacific…

Today I bring you Epeli Hau’ofa’s “To the Last Viking of the Sunrise.” I found it in Nuanua: Pacific Writing in English Since 1980.

To the Last Viking of the Sunrise

Since you left, captain,
We’ve missed the man
Who sliced the blue-black sea
To get to Lifuka
Before the water boiled.

You’ve gone, Tevita,
And the wet-winged tern from Minerva
Has flown to the rock
Where Sina sits waiting for the word
You will never send.

Moana’s calling you
Who slipped the midway reef,
Set bow for the foamy straits,
Beating the wind, the wooden gods
Giving way to no one, north or west.

Oh, tell us again
Of the day you raked the coral head
Then crashed the coast of Kandavu
Whence the mountains heard that he who dared
Had tamed the sea.

You’ve gone, red-eyed sailor,
So have our fathers forever.
I mourn not you, not them,
But us you’ve left adrift,
Derelicts becalmed.

—Epeli Hau’ofa
from Nuanua: Pacific Writing in English Since 1980

Dominica

Now, don’t confuse it with the Dominican Republic, first things first. Dominica is so-named because Christopher Columbus discovered the island on a Sunday—Dominica being the Latin for Sunday. It’s actually a reasonable distance from the Dominican Republic, too, located in the Lesser Antilles. It’s meant to be a pretty young island—still being formed by geothermal-volcanic activity. That’s rather exciting.

I don’t know what they called it before Columbus’s Sunday morning sailing adventure, but before Chris came came along, the islands were first inhabited by Arawak people, and then Caribs, who drove the Arawaks out. These Caribs were pretty good at driving people out—the Spanish didn’t really settle there, as there was pretty fierce opposition from the Caribs.

Of course, we know that wasn’t going to last indefinitely. The French decided to change all that, and after France claimed Dominica, missionaries started to arrive. Again, the Caribs fought back and in 1660 the French, along with the British of St Vincent, decided to bail out. Dominica was neutral for the next century, at least officially. In reality both the British and the French liked to harvest its timber.

And then France won out for a while, since Dominica’s between Martinique and Guadelope. But there was some back and forth between the British and French, and though the French tried to invade again twice, the island became a British holding in 1783. In the nineteenth century Dominica became part of the Leeward Island Federation—for a while. After 1936 the island was governed as part of the Windward Islands until 1958, and then took part in the West Indies Federation while it lasted. what next? Well, then Dominica stayed on its own, becoming an associated state of the UK and self-governing. 1978 saw independence. Independence!

Since independence there have been a few problems—economic underdevelopment isn’t an easy state for the twentieth/twenty-first century nation. Especially when banana prices dropped in the 1990s. Stir in a few hurricanes, and voila! There was some work to be done. Obviously some of that will come from tourism—and Dominica is considered to have the most pristine wilderness of the Caribbean. I smell eco-tourism. Though it doesn’t have very many beaches. Good old offshore services have also helped. Of course, I don’t know how the economic crisis is affecting them,

Oh! Dominica is where Jean Rhys grew up. And if you’ve read Wide Sargasso Sea, her prequel to Jane Eyre, you’ve read a bit about Dominica. I read a bunch of Jean Rhys back in the day. I think it was the book Voyage in the Dark that had another Dominican girl in England—and her descriptions of how dark and cold London was compared with Dominica made me huddle up in a blanket, let me tell you.

While I was hunting around for a poem, I was interested to run into a book by the American poet Laurence Lieberman called The Creole Mephistopheles. Among the pieces in this book is “Mayhem and Romance in a Cropduster Fuselage.” Now it’s a long poem—featuring a drive along the coastline of Dominica—and I thought I’d just pull out a small segment of it.


from Mayhem and Romance in a Cropduster Fuselage

We’ve hugged coastline
     for miles, cruising past
             one premiere vista after another.
             Winding in slow ascent
over the rise, we reach low coastal summit,
park, and step out to the bluff, steep precipice
                   overlooking the shore. 

—Laurence Lieberman
from The Creole Mephistopheles

Federated States of Micronesia

I have to admit that when I first heard of Micronesia I thought it was an odd name. It's not really a weird name. But my associations turned it into "small amnesia" in my mind. Forgive me. Perhaps appropriately, given my associations, I had no idea the country was so close to Australia—it’s just north of Papua New Guinea. Somehow I thought it was off in another part of the Pacific. I live to be corrected—vague impressions always need remedying. Today is Micronesia’s Independence Day—marking the day on which they attained independence in 1986. Prior to that the country was a United Nations Trust Territory, under US administration. The capital is Palikir—the city’s population is under 5000 people, and is located on the island of Pohnpei. Micronesia has hundreds of islands, by the way. And no, I’m not going to name them all.

Micronesia was first settled over four thousand years ago, and around 500 AD the Saudeleur dynasty used Nan Madol—a group of artificial islands linked by canals—as the ceremonial and political seat of power. Nan Madol is sometimes called “the Venice of the Pacific” and really, looking at pictures, it’s fascinating. The Saudeleur dynasty collapsed around 1500.

Europeans? Well, we know they arrived at some point, since the country used to be a UN Trust Territory, right? The Portuguese were the first, and then the Spanish—the Spanish were the first to set up shop. Then, in 1899, they sold the country to Germany. Germany didn’t have much time to decided whether or not it was happy with its purchase—the islands fell to Japan in 1914. The Japanese didn’t get all that much time with their new holding either—in World War II Micronesia was seized by the United States, and then in 1947 moved under the UN trusteeship, while still being administered by the US.

Prior to independence, the country became the Federated States of Micronesia in 1979 when a new constitution was ratified. At this point Palau, the Marshall Islands and the Northern Mariana Islands bowed out. At the time of attaining independence, Micronesia signed a Caompact of Free Association with the United States, which was renewed in 2004. \

There are seven official languages. I think that’s pretty cool. They are, for interest’s sake: English, Ulithian, Woleaian, Yapese, Pohnpeian, Kosraean and Chuukese. Of course, there’s a whole bunch of other languages spoken through Micronesia as well—I guess that’s to be expected when there are over 600 islands.

Hey! The island of Yap has Rai stones, that are known as “stone money.” They’re disks of stone—usually calcite—up to 12 feet tall (or wide… they’re circles after all) with holes in the middle. And—fun fact—the islanders often don’t bother moving them around when ownership changes. I mean, they know who they belong to. I’m guessing they’re pretty conspicuous. Except, there are lots of them—about 6,500 on the island. Apparently most of them come from elsewhere—mainly Palau, but some even from as far away as Papua New Guinea. I have to say, I now want to go adventuring in Micronesia…

Today’s poem from Micronesia is by Engelbert Danis. I found it online here.


Love Stick

A very fine piece of tangantangan

Carved with tender care

Way better then Cupid's arrow

Or the Roman spear.

Precious in a way

It stands as a symbol
Like a birth name

For a certain individual.

It defines love, to those who know its mark.

It denies love, to those who don't own it.

Yes, it is a tool for amorous communication

And no, it is not a weapon of mass destruction.

Lucky for those who can feel its unique arts,

For they will invite their lovers.

Tangantangan is not just a stick

It's a fine piece of Chuukese carving for girls to pick

And take delight in.

—Engelbert Danis

Antigua and Barbuda

So, I’m guessing you can tell by the name of the country: Antigua and Barbuda consists of two major islands—Antigua and, well, Barbuda. Oh, and there are also a number of smaller islands. The islands are part of the archipelago of the Lesser Antilles—and as such Antigua and Barbuda is neighbour to all kinds of other places. Guadelope, Dominica, Martinique, Saint Lucia, Saint Vincent and the Grenadines, Barbados, Grenada and Trinidad and Tobago. Got that? This will be tested later.

Today marks Antigua and Barbuda’s Independence Day. Let’s celebrate! Independent from? The United Kingdom. Year? 1981. Remember, there will be a test.

And as an island nation in the Caribbean we are familiar with many of the pre-Columbian settlers—Arawaks and Caribs. The first settlers, though, are known simply as the “Archaic People,” and they were later succeeded by the Saladoid people, who originated in Venezuala. The Arawaks came later, bringing agriculture—including the apparently famous Antiguan “Black” pineapple. Okay—apparently I’m ignorant. I don’t know anything about this pineapple. Apparently the skin is dark (not black, though) while the flesh is yellow. Oh, and I hear it is luscious. Thankyou to the Arawaks! The pre-Columbian settlers called Antigua Wadadli, and today many locals call Antigua Land of Wadadli.

And Columbus? He landed on the island on his second trip to the so-called New World in 1493. The original full name of Antigua was Santa Maria de la Antigua—named after a church in Seville. The Spanish were the first European settlers, but were replaced by the English from 1632. There was a brief period of French rule—but the islands reverted to English rule fairly quickly. Wow, see those dates above? They’ll be on the test.

Ooh. The first Prime Minister of the independent state of Antigua and Barbuda was the Right Honourable Vere Cornwall Bird. That’s a name. And the islands are still part of the Commonwealth. They totally play cricket.

I lied. There’s no test. But you should remember these things anyway. It’s interesting.

I decided that, rather than a poem, I would give you an excerpt of an essay by Jamaica Kincaid. The essay first appeared in Callaloo in 1997, and it explores the sorts of questions that have interested me throughout the year.

from In History

What to call the thing that happened to me and all who look like me?

Should I call it history?

If so, what should history mean to someone like me?

Should it be an idea, should it be an open wound and each breath I take in and expel healing and opening the wound again and again, over and over, or is it a moment that began in 1492 and has come to no end yet? Is it a collection of facts, all true and precise details, and, if so, when I come across there true and precise details, what should I do, how should I feel, where should I place myself?

Why should I be obsessed with all these questions?

My history began like this: in 1492, Christopher Columbus discovered the New World. Since this is only a beginning and I am not yet in the picture, I have not yet made an appearance, the word “discover” does not set off an alarm, and I am not yet confused by this interpretation. I accept it. I am only taken by the personality of this quarrelsome, restless man. His origins are sometimes obscure; sometimes no one knows just where he really comes from, who he really was. His origins are sometimes quite vivid: his father was a tailor, he came from Genoa, he as a boy wandered up and down the Genoese wharf, fascinated by sailors and their tales of lands far away; these lands would be filled with treasures, as all things far away are treasures. I am far away, but I am not yet a treasure: I am not a part of this man’s consciousness, he does not know of me, I do not yet have a name. And so the word “discover,” as it is applied to this New World, remains uninteresting to me.

—Jamaica Kincaid
from Callaloo, Volume 20, No. 1 (Winter 1997)

US Virgin Islands

Having read a little about the US Virgin Islands today, I have to admit that my affections were engaged almost immediately—I’m shallow—upon learning that the capital is Charlotte Amalie. Pretty name! So the US Virgin Islands are a territory (an organized, unincorporated territory to be exact) of… you guessed it… Which maks George W. Bush their head of state… with a president-elect on the way in a few short days! (Yes, the election has been obsessing me.) And today the US Virgin Islands celebrate Liberty Day. Happy Liberty Day, guys!

Of course, the islands haven’t been a US territory all along. There were the original settlers—Carib and Arawaks. Then, you know, Christopher Columbus bumped into them all. He named them after Saint Ursula and her virgin followers. Which prompts me to find out about Saint Ursula. She’s a British Christian saint. Her feast day was a week and a half ago. And the legend? That she was a Romano-British princess who set sail to join her fiancé, a pagan Governor in Brittany—and she took 11,000 virginal handmaidens. Seriously? How many boatloads is that? Anyway, she decided to set out on a pilgrimage around Europe before her marriage. The first leg seemed to go well—Rome, good stuff. Then, Cologne. Which was besieged by the Huns at the time. Yes, you know it ended in tears. Saint Ursula was shot dead. And the 11,000 virgins? Legendarily every single one of them was beheaded.

So, Columbus. Then a few hundred years of musical chairs—Spain, Britain, the Netherlands, France and Denmark-Norway all held the islands at different times. And then? The Danish decided to sell the islands to the United States, a couple of times. The first two attempts were never effected. Then after the start of World War I, Denmark held a referendum in 1916, and selling won the day. The US took possession on 31 March, 1917, and a decade later the islanders became US citizens. Voila! Oh, and the residents can vote in presidential primaries, but not in actual elections.

A poem? I found “Charcoal” by Patricia M. Fagan online here.


Charcoal




I



black man bent under

tropic sun

burning lignum vitae

for charcoal

to boil morning tea.



black woman's hands 

carry coal

for Rotterdam's steam

a cent a bucket buys

little sugar

her cracked yellow feet

mark the earth

step by step 

under Danish flag.



Millions of years ago

in another tropical forest

trees, flowers, plants

absorbed sun

day after day

then sank into earth's bosom

metamorphosed to coal.



The Dannebrog lowers a past 

“We must progress” captions 

the coal carrier's dreams of

golden roads and electric light.

Blackbeard's pieces of eight

pay for Old Glory.



II



But those were old photographs 

viewed in a wrinkled olive book

The Danish Isles of the West.

Now kodak snaps the Red 

White and Blue cooly

waving over tin shacks 

sweltering in blistering sun

for bargain hunter’s

trade magazine.



While in the dark 

a spector’ scream

of freedom's flight

Queen Mary, the one-legged 

slave jumped to her death

on the jagged rocks of the sea



The stories chant, 

“Look to the water!”

reminding us of her yearly 

apparition and a bloody sea



And we weep to the drums

that beat somewhere else

to marching rats and fighting roaches

while old man tends his coal pot

and Lennox Avenue screams identity.

—Patricia M. Fagan

Turkey

Okay, confession time. I always forget the capital of Turkey. Which is Ankara. I think of a Turkish city, and it’s Istanbul that springs to mind. And this is partly, I guess, that Istanbul straddles Europe and Asia, as well as the fact that it’s the third largest city in the world. We all know size counts, right? And I guess I’m not the only person in the so-called “Western World” who has an ingrained Euro-centric view of things. I try to work against that—this whole project is about working against it—but it’s been part of my whole life… Today is Republic Day in Turkey. Celebration ensues.

So. Turkey. Well, there’s the Byzantine Empire, the successor to the Roman Empire: and, yes, Byzantium became Constantinople, which in turn became Istanbul. The Turks had their victory over the Byzantine Empire in 1071, and they began to abandon their nomadic ways, giving rise to the Seljuk Empire… which didn’t last long, thanks to the Mongols. But out of this the Ottoman Empire eventually emerged, and this was a huge political entity, only come apart after World War I.

After the Ottoman Empire? The republic. The Turkish War of Independence started in 1919, ending on 29 October 1923 with the declaration of the Republic. After siding with the Germans in World War I, Turkey was on the Allied side in World War II. (Turkey’s World War I showing is important to Australians, as Gallipoli is etched in national memory.)

Adjusting to its new place in the twentieth century wasn’t always easy in Turkey—the country has seen a number of military coup d’états since the start of the multi-party period.

My parents have been to Turkey twice—visiting Gallipoli both times. The first time they brought me back a small Turkish carpet. (My cat used to delight in playing with its corners… thank goodness I weaned her off that habit.) The second time they brought me back an Aladdin-style lantern.

I also want to go to Turkey. Among other things, I desperately want to go to the traditional location of Troy… Someday. I also want to go inland. I want to go—well, everywhere.

Today’s poem is by the wonderful Nâzim Hikmet—I didn’t note it down at the time, but I’m assuming it comes from The Vintage Book of Contemporary World Poetry. And while you could read the small selection of his work in that wonderful anthology, why limit your reading? His Selected Poems are available in English too!


Angina Pectoris

If half my heart is here,
    half of it is in China, doctor.
It’s in the army flowing to the Yellow river.
Then, at every dawn, doctor
    at every dawn, my heart
      is riddled with bullets in Greece.

Then when our convicts get to sleep
     retreating from the ward
          my heart is in a broken down old manor in Çamlica,
       every night,
            doctor.

Then for all those ten years
all I have to offer my poor people
  is this one apple I hold, doctor,
       a red apple:
        my heart…

It’s not from arteriosclerosis, nor nicotine, nor prison,
that I have this angina pectoris,
 but because, dear doctor, because of this.

I look at night through iron bars,
despite the pressure in my chest,
my heart beats along with the farthest star. 

—Nâzim Hikmet
translated from Turkish by Ruth Christie, Richard McKane and Talât Sait Halman

Czech Republic

It was on a bus from Berlin to Prague that I discovered how much I loved travelling by bus—so long as the bus isn’t too crowded that is. This was pre-European Union-hood, so I had waited in Berlin for my visa to come through, and we’d stopped at the border so the authorities could check everyone’s paperwork. I had a window seat (with no-one next to me… good for stretching out) and I spent hours listening to music and looking out the window. I love the unpredictability of buses—they don’t rely on tracks, so they can wander through different landscapes if there happens to be a detour. The roads we travelled on the way to Prague went straight through small towns rather than bypassing them—something that I miss driving on major Australian highways. Give me a smaller highway, and all the small towns you can throw at me.

So, today is Independence Day in the Czech Republic. It celebrates their independence from Austria-Hungary in 1918—this was when the country became Czechoslovakia. Obviously that country dissolved in 1993 when Slovakia became a separate nation, but the Czech Republic still celebrates this 1918 independence. I believe—though correct me if I’m wrong—that it is still known as Czechoslavak Indepedendence Day.

Prague is like a kind of fairytale city. When I was there (and yes, I know that the country has a lot more to it than Prague) the idea that Prague had once been a real hub in Europe came home to me. Which is not to say that it is less of a hub—but that the communist period under Russia, the Czech Republic seemed to move further East in the world’s imagination—when if you look at any map of Europe, it’s in the centre. Mental, emotional geography is often different to what latitude and longitude tells us.

After World War I, when Czechoslovakia was formed, it incorporated region sof Bohemia, Moravia, Silesia, Carpathian Ruthernia and, of course, Slovakia.

The Prague Spring took place in 1968—under Alexander Dubček’s leadership, the country worked towards “socialism with a human face.” This openness and tolerance was curtailed by the Warsaw Pact invasion. Censorship replaced openness, until in November 1989 the country returned to democracy with the Velvet Revolution—before the peaceful split into two nations.

Oh, and I know Kafka wrote in German, but he lived his entire life in Bohemia. I visited the house of his birth on my trip to Prague. Some other Czech writers to follow up on ? Jaroslav Seifert, Karel Čapek, Miroslav Holub, Václav Havel, Milan Kundera… that should get you started.

And before you go look up those authors, here’s a poem by Ivana Bozdechová, taken from New European Poets.


Everyday Occurrence

Suddenly he stood at my table
without knocking
with a white rose wrapped in paper
and a question in his eyes.

The afternoon had drizzled into dusk
and the café was smoke-filled with people.
Carefully we picked our silences
until at last we know
that even together we cannot
cure the world.

So don’t be afraid of happiness
or of the smile of Prague Castle
above the weary river.

All that is left today
is the rattle of the departing streetcar
because the rose looks forward to getting home.
Do come again.
Maybe something’s beginning.

—Ivana Bozdechová
from New European Poets
translated from the Czech by Ewald Osers

Saint Vincent and the Grenadines

Saint Vincent. The Grenadines. Independence Day. Sounds like a reason for a beach party… Vincentians are celebrating their independence from the United Kingdom today, marking the anniversary of their 1979 step into nationhood. Saint Vincent is the main island of the country, and then the northern two-thirds of the Grenadines belong to the country as well. The Grenades that aren’t part of Saint Vincent and the Grenadines belong, instead (and not surprisingly), to Grenada.

When Europeans did come along, the Carib Indians prevented settlement on St Vincent until into the 18th century. Considering the outcomes on some islands, this was probably a good move on the part of the Caribs. African slaves—escaped or shipwrecked—intermarried with the Caribs, and became known as Garifuna, or Black Caribs. And then in 1719, French settlers decided they would move onto the island—and succeeded in doing so, planting coffee, tobacco, indigo, corn and sugar.

About fifty years after the French settled, there was a bit of a back-and-forth with the territory’s “ownership.” St Vincent went to Britain under the Treaty of Paris in 1763 and then, in 1779, was restored to the French. In 1783 it was once again ceded to Britain, this time under the Treaty of Versailles. And it stayed British. Until recently. (It’s still a commonwealth nation, so the official head of state is still Queen Elizabeth II…)

So, slavery ended in 1834. Hooray! I love the moment of emancipation… This led to the familiar immigration of indentured servants—mostly East Indian labourers.

While Britain tried from its side to affiliate St Vincent with other Windward Islands—a unified administration being the advantage for them—they didn’t really make any headway. On the Caribbean side, the British colonies of the area tried the West Indies Federation, which lasted from 1958 until 1962. After this collapse, St Vincent became an associated state in 1969, leaving it in control of all its internal affairs. And the next step, as we know, was the 1979 declaration of independence. St Vincent and the Grenadines were apparent the last of the Windward Islands to gain independence.

Oh, there’s an active volcano (Soufrière) on St Vincent as well. There are a number of violent eruptions on record, including eruptions in 1718, 1812, 1902, 1971 and 1979. The 1902 eruption killed well over a thousand people. The most recent eruption came with enough warning that there were no casualities.

Speaking of Soufrière, that’s the subject of today’s poem, writtem by E. McG. “Shake” Keane. It comes from The Heinemann Book of Caribbean Poetry, and I found it online here.


Soufrière

The thing split Good Friday in two
and that good new morning groaned
and snapped
like breaking an old habit

Within minutes
people
who had always been leaving nowhere
began arriving nowhere
entire lives stuffed in pillow-cases
and used plastic bags
naked children suddenly transformed
into citizens

’Ologists with their guilty little instruments
were already oozing about the mountainsides
bravely
and by radio

(As a prelude to resurrection and brotherly love
you can’t beat ructions and eruptions)

Flies ran away from the scene of the crime
and crouched like Pilate
in the secret places of my hours
washing their hands

Thirty grains of sulphur
panicked off the phone
when it rang

Mysterious people ordered
other mysterious people
to go to mysterious places
‘immediately’

I wondered about the old woman
who had walked back to hell
to wash her Sunday clothes

All the grey-long day
music
credible and incredibly beautiful
came over he radio
while the mountain refreshed itself

Someone who lives
inside a microphone
kept things in order

Three children
in unspectacular rags
a single bowl of grey dust between them
tried to manure the future
round a young plum tree

The island put a white mask
over its face
coughed cool as history
and fell in love with itself

A bus traveling heavy
cramped as Calvary
thrust its panic into the side of a hovel
and then the evening’s blanket
sent like some strange gift from abroad
was rent by lightning

—E. McG. ‘Shake’ Keane
from The Heinemann Book of Caribbean Poetry

Turkmenistan

On 27 October Turkmenistan celebrates its Independence Day. Independence? From the USSR: on this day in 1991 Turkmenistan declared its independence; on 8 December independence was recognised. The capital is Ashgabat.

So, Turkmenistan is Turkic nation in Central Asia, sitting on the eastern side of the Caspian Sea. Given its position between the Middle East and the large East Asian powers, I guess it’s not surprising that the country was conquered a few times over the years—even Alexander the Great. It was in the seventh century or so that Arabs conquered the region, bringing Islam with them, also incorporating Turkmen into Middle Eastern culture.

Turkmenistan became a Soviet Socialist Republic in 1924. As part of the USSR the alphabet changed from Arabic script first to Latin, and then to the Cyrillic alphabet.

If you were reading about Central Asia a few years ago you may have come across stories about Saparmyrat Nyýazow, who served as head of state pre-independence from 1985, and until his death in 2006. Now this was a totalitarian leader—his regime was incredibly repressive. And yet, most of the stories I remember were really about things that were portrayed as over-the-top, silly, extravagant—but not really cruel. An example? Well, he renamed months after family members. He over saw the building of the tallest structure in the capital, the Neutrality Arch—and placed on top of the monument a gold-plated statue of himself that rotates 360 degrees over the course of 24 hours, and always faces the sun. On the more serious side, in 2007 Reporters Without Borders ranked Turkmenistan the thirds most restrictive country in the world when it comes to press freedoms. Add to that repression of homosexuality and the authorities monitor religious groups. And, in a measure that I’m guessing makes Johnny Depp extremely unwelcome, beards and long hair are banned. But, really, I’m sure those last few facts have passed you by, and you’re still thinking about the Neutrality Arch. Oh, it seems Nyýazow’s successor, Gurganguly Berdimuhammedow (that’s an amazing name!) is tired of thinking about the Neutrality Arch. He had to moved to a highway at the edge of Ashgabat.

And today’s Turkmen poem is by Gurbannazar Eziz. I comes from the amazing Language for a New Century.


The Eastern Poem

A green wind brushed a slender branch,
opening the mouths of the buds.
Head thrown back to the sky, a wolf howled,
as if telling his complaint to the moon.

Moonshadow fell on the river,
weaving a golden carpet across the water.
Beneath the Asian sky, a girl
recited a poem by the eastern poet.

Beneath this sky. in moonlight,
the poetry written in ancient times,
finding no place in the kings’ golden castles,
knocked on the door of the common people.

Nothing of the ancient world is old
if a nation’s people have the desire.
Old is something new that’s been forgotten.
New means the legacy of what was before.

And so if this sky remains,
if this moon continues to extend its beam,
as the early star is born each morning,
the eastern poem will cast its glow over the world.

We will pass away.
After us, there will be many others,
and then a girl, turning her face toward the sky,
will remember what was written in pursuit of eternity.

—Gurbannazar Eziz
translated from the Turkmen by Eric Welsapar and Idra Novey
from Language for a New Century

Austria

I have to admit, my first awareness of Austria came via The Sound of Music. I’m guessing this is true for many (non-Austrian) children. Many English-speaking children at least. The hills are alive… And you know what? The hills are alive with the sound of music. I mean, look at the facts: Mozart, Haydn, Schubert, Bruckner, Strauss Sr and Strauss Jr, Mahler… born in Austria. Beethoven wasn’t born there, but he spent a lot of his life there. What about the fact that we have the First Viennese School and the Second Viennese School? If you asked someone on the street to name a composer Mozart and Beethoven are likely to be the first names that pop into the layman’s mind. My point? Them there hills are doing something right to get the musical juices of the western tradition flowing… So put in some Mahler, sit back with a piece of Strudel and celebrate Austria’s national day. In 1804 the Austrian Empire was declared, in 1918 the First Austrian Republic. Most recently, this day marks Austria’s 1955 Declaration of Neutrality.

Austria’s been around in some form or another for over a thousand years. The part you’re likely to know—at least vaguely—is the Habsburgs. From 1278 until World War I, Austria’s history was really bound up with this ruling dynasty. Oh, and Austria gave France Marie Antoinette. Our mental images of the French Revolution wouldn’t be the same without her…

Oh, and World War I? Well we know that the explanation that it was all sparked by the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria in Sarajevo is a little simplistic—but it was the straw that broke the camel’s back, so to speak. On the still darker side, Austria was the birthplace of Hitler, so the World War II also has roots in Austria.

On a completely frivolous tack, the Austrian Tyrol was the original site for the Chalet School of Eleanor Brent-Dyer’s long series of boarding school books. (Another fact that emerges about your tour guide… she is addicted to books set in boarding schools.)

For today’s poem, I have turned to the wonderful Ingeborg Bachman. Please, go find more of Bachman’s work. You’ll be glad you did…


Aria I

Wherever we turn in the storm of roses,
thorns illuminate the night. And the thunder
of a thousand leaves, once so quiet on the bushes,
is right at our heels.

Wherever the roses’ fire is put out,
rain washes us into the river. Oh distant night!
Yet a leaf that touched us now floats on the waves,
following us to the sea.

—Ingeborg Bachmann
from The Vintage Book of Contemporary World Poetry
translated from the German by Mark Anderson

Zambia

There’s something magical to me about the countries starting with “Z.” (Oh, and that’s “Z” pronounced Zed and not Zee. That’s important to me…) I don’t know why—it’s irrational. Or is it? The music of certain words is of central importance in my life. That’s why I post poems at the end of these explanations. Zambia. Independent from the UK on this day in 1964.

Zambia. Surrounded by the Democratic Republic of the Congo and Angola, by Tanzania and Malawi, by Mozambique, Zimbabwe, Botswana and Namibia. Capital: Lusaka.

Zambia—it’s been inhabited for thousands of years. During the Bantu expansion the Tonga people came to Zambia, followed by the Nkoya people. Then the Nsokolo people and the Ngoni people. More magical sounds. The name Zambia comes from the Zambezi river. Before that the British called it Northern Rhodesia. The British arrived in the late nineteenth-century, claiming the area as a British protectorate.

Zambia and copper. The Copperbelt lies in the northwest, and the economy has been dominated by copper mining, though recently the government has been trying to diversify.

Zambia and independence: enter the one-party state under Kenneth Kuanda. Multi-party elections arrived in 1991. In 1997, a coup d’etat. Other problems—HIV/AIDS, sadly not a surprise.

Zambia and poetry. I looked, and what I found comes from a tradition of oral poetry—from an article by J K Rennie. “Cattle, Conflict, and Court Cases: The Praise Poetry of Ila Leadership” from Research in African Literature, the Winter 1984 issue.

Shikaumbu at the Battle of Isanvu

Move over, let me through, I am the lion who kills 
     by day!
You don’t speak of Isanvu, where Kalubi built; we
     churned blood in the mud, they never retreated,
     Mulangu Nalukanko;
This, this, this is war, Moonga!

—from “Cattle, Conflict and Court Cases: The Praise Poetry of Ila Leadership,” by J K Rennie. Reseach in African Literature.

Hungary

So once upon a time there was the Austro-Hungarian Empire. These days? Well, no more empire. And today the Hungarian half of the equation is celebrating its National Day—the anniversary of the day Hungary became a republic in 1989. You know—the spread of the Velvet Revolution. I didn’t make it to Hungary when I was in Europe, but it looks like I’ll have a chance to spend a (very cold) few days there when I head back to Australia for another sunny Christmas.

The Blue Danube, Buda and Pest. My early stamp collection, and the sense of enlightenment I felt when my mother told me that the stamps marked “Magyar” were from Hungary.

I remember the fall of the Berlin Wall—and sometimes I even like to think I have a vague recollection about hearing about the end of the one-party system in then-Czechoslovakia. But I know I wasn’t aware that Hungary had had the same Post-World War II period under Communist control. (I was nine—I think I should be relatively pleased I knew about Gorbachev, about perestroika and glasnost. We watched stories about these on the wonderful “BTN” or “Behind the News,” aimed to let 9-year-olds like me know the background to world events. But Hungary? Couldn’t have told you much other than the fact I liked their stamps.) As Central and Eastern European countries began to break out from Soviet control, Hungary followed suit.

In May 1989 Hungarians began to remove the barbed wire fence that ran along the Austrian border—apparently it was the first rip in the Iron Curtain. Hey—that’s pretty important stuff right there.

Free elections returned after four decades of Communist Rule in March 1990. It hasn’t been the easiest transition—no major upheavals politically, but the transition to a free market economy has taken its toll on living standards for the majority. (I don’t know how the current crisis is playing out in this region of Europe… note to self: learn everything.)

Now, go out and eat Goulash. Play Bartók’s violin quartets. Pick up a CD of Ligeti’s music. Dig your Rubik’s cube out of the back of the cupboard. Have a glass of Pálinka. Kick back. Relax. Read a poem. Like, for instance, “The Hole,” by Imre Oravecz. I found it in New European Poets.


The Hole

The sheep with the trepanned head stood on the other side of the fence,

in the shade,
facing us,
its head hanging,
motionless,
silent,
an arm’s length away,

in its head was a huge funnel-shaped hole
which we could see down into,

the hole consisted of mildew-colored concentric rings
that narrowed to a single point,

in the point something throbbed,

the whole thing was like a bird’s-eye view of an exposed surface mine,
only the busy engines and trucks were missing
from the circular beam,

we would have liked to reach in through the pickets
and poke in it with a stick,
but we didn’t dare,

we just stood there holding our breath,
and looked at it, stupefied.

—Imre Oravecz
from New European Poets
translated from the Hungarian by Bruce Berling and Mária Kõrösy

Netherlands Antilles

Antilles Day! Let’s celebrate! Rusty on your knowledge of the Netherlands Antilles? Well, these islands are part of the Lesser Antilles and consist of the Curaçao and Bonaire island groups, as well as Sint Eustatius, Saba and Sint Maarten (the half that belongs to the Netherlands). Phew! I can tell you that, growing up in Australia, I may have heard of some of these islands—but beyond that I wouldn’t have been able to tell you much. Anyway, the islands are an autonomous part of the Kingdom of the Netherlands. So, Queen Beatrix is their monarch. But, you know, there’s a governor and prime minister too. Oh—the Netherlands Antilles was meant to be dissolved as a unified political entity—giving constituent islands new, separate statuses, but that’s been postponed. It’ll still happen, but we don’t know when.

The Dutch weren’t the first outsiders to take a shine to the islands of the Netherlands Antilles. No—the Spanish came along first, discovering and becoming the initial settlers for the islands. It wasn’t until the 17th century that the Dutch West India Company conquered the islands, first using them as military outposts and trade bases: welcome to the slave trade. Well, until 1863. Goodbye to the slave trade.

Until 1954 the islands were a colonial territory. What happened in 1954? An upgrade. The islands effectively became a separate country in the Kingdom of the Netherlands. More recently Aruba, which was part of the Netherlands Antilles until 1986, became a separate country when it was granted status aparte. A few years ago the remaining segments of the Netherlands Antilles held referenda on their future ties to the Netherlands. Sint Maarten and Curaçao voted to follow in Aruba’s wake, wanting status aparte as well. Saba and Bonaire, in contrast, wanted closer ties to the Netherlands. And Sint Eustatius? Well Sint Eustatius voted to stay in the Netherlands Antilles. Not surprisingly it was the islands with the smallest populations that voted to keep things as they are or make their ties to Netherland closer, while the islands with the large populations wanted to obtain status aparte. Interestingly none of the islands had a large vote for independence—the largest was 14.2 percent for independence on Sint Maarten.

Economically there aren’t really any surprises: the Netherlands Antilles major sources of income are tourism, petroleum transhipment, oil refinement and offshore finances. Agriculture is not much of a factor—the soil’s not great, and the water supply is not exactly ample. Consumer goods come from elsewhere.

Why don’t we read a poem, class? (Gosh, I often think I should have been a primary school teacher…) The poet? Frank Martinus Arion. I found this point in a 1998 edition of Callaloo which was dedicated to literature of the Dutch Caribbean.



I fell in deep snow
If you cannot save me
Then lie down beside me
Help me weep

If only you spoke Papaimentu
I would call you my lover
As for a kiss that would save ne
But you can never be black

They told me
They all begged me
If you marry a white woman
You can’t return to your black homeland

I fell in deep snow
If you cannot save me
Then lie down beside me
Help me weep

—Frank Martinus Arion
translated for the Papiamentu by Paul Vincent
from Callaloo, “Carribean Literature from Suriname, The Netherlands Antilles, Aruba, and The Netherlands: A Special Issue” (Summer, 1998)