Bermuda

At the height of summer, Bermudians take a few days off to enjoy a holiday and a spot of cricket. Cricket? The annual Cup Match between the St George’s and Somerset cricket clubs. To make it all seem a bit more official, they turned the last Thursday of July into a public holiday in celebration of Emancipation Day. The public holiday was introduced in 1947 (the annual game has been played since 1902)—it was in 1999 that the celebration of emancipation became formally part of the ritual of the Cup Match, and the day was formally renamed Emancipation day at the same time. Just how important is this cricket match? Well, the population of Bermuda is under 70,000, and the match attracts more than 7000 at the venue—so, even a non-maths type can see that’s a significant proportion of the population. And of course it’s broadcast, so that the rest of the nation is probably glued to the telly. Oh—and Emancipation Day? It celebrates the British Empire’s Slavery Abolition Act of 1833, which was enacted on 1 August, 1834. A lot of the Caribbean nations take it as a public holiday—some on the date itself, some on the first Monday in August—or, here, the last Thursday of July.

I hope you all know that Bermuda is not a single island—apparently the number “138” is “approximate,” although it seems like a pretty specific number to me. Call me crazy. I mean, what do I know? Or maybe whole islands periodically disappear in the Bermuda Triangle. Maybe they suspect one of the islands is actually Leviathan or Dr Doolittle’s Great Pink Sea-snail. Don’t ask me. Speaking of pink, Bermuda has pink sand beaches. They look pretty.

So Bermuda was discovered at the very beginning of the 16th century—perhaps in 1503. This discovery is attributed to Juan de Bermúdez, hence the name. Early on both the Spanish and the Portuguese used the islands as a handy spot to replenish meat and water, though from the outset stories of devils and ghostly things came from the islands—which they named the Isle of Devils. So Bermuda’s always been a bit of a mystery spot, apparently—even if it was probably just loud birds that scared people. Still, they didn’t want to risk settling the island. Add to that the fact that the shipwreck of Sir George Somers off Bermuda is thought to have been an inspiration for Shakespeare’s The Tempest, and the spook factor doesn’t let up.

But you can be sure that it was neither the Spanish nor the Portuguese that brought cricket to Bermuda. Early in the 17th century the English staked a claim and, interestingly, the first British coins minted in the Americas were made here. When King Charles I was beheaded back in Britain during the English Civil War (1649) Bermuda reacted with the Bermudian Civil War. They were very pro-the British crown, and those who weren’t went into exile in the Bahamas.

After trying a few things to liven up their economy, salt was deemed to be the key. After deforesting the islands, the salt trade became their major source of income and grew to be the world's largest, though sailors were also dab hands at the merchant trade in general, as well as a little whaling and privateering (read: piracy!) when needed. Oh, and the HMS Pickle (yes, Pickle), the boat that brought news of the Admiral Nelson back to England, was made in Bermuda.

And, more recently, Bermuda signals: tax haven. Anyone who has talked tennis with me, and brought up the subject of Pat Rafter knows that a) I’m not a big fan of his (controversial, especially for an Aussie girl, but that’s just how it is) and b) I’m very unimpressed that he lives in Bermuda and doesn’t pay taxes in Australia—and that this was true when in 2002 he won Australian of the Year. I could rant about this, but I won’t bore you.

Bermuda, by the way, does also have a Bermuda day. I chose Emancipation Day because I wanted to represent this somewhere in the project—it’s spread over a number of nations and territories, but it represents another important marker in “independence.” Plus, I’m kind of fond of the fact that Bermudians combine emancipation with cricket.

I suppose I should mention that triangle, right? Also known as the Devil’s Triangle. Bermuda is meant to be, popularly, one of the “points” of the triangle—the other points are San Juan, Puerto Rico and someplace on the (Atlantic) coast of Florida. Some may be disappointed in Lawrence David Kusche’s conclusion that the whole fuss is a “manufactured mystery”—and who am I to spoil your fun? If you want to test the waters, but also want some insurance, Lloyd’s of London will help you out—they don’t think the area is any more dangerous than any other oceanic region, so presumably there’s no extra charge for those wanting to explore the area. Go to.

But read a poem first. I found this piece, “Wild Jasmine,” online here—it’s by Alan Smith.


Wild Jasmine

Her water never broke

but the tides came in nonetheless

she smelled it months away at sea

approaching with the casual assuredness 

of longtail flights

but loudly and repeatedly announced

with sea-fondled baubles 

deposited on the north shoreline

the sudden inexplicable scent of wild jasmine

the phosphorescent aqua seas of her dreams

yes the tides did come

two new lives uncovered in the pink sands

unnoticed in the blue distance

the glistening tail and shadow of doubt

submerging and heading out to open ocean

—by Alan Smith

Vanuatu

Since 30 July, 1980 Vanuatu has been independent from France and the United Kingdom, and so today we’re celebrating ni-Vanuatu Independence Day. Vanuatu—on of the island nations of the South Pacific. It’s an archipelago north-east of New Caledonia, west of Fiji, south of the Solomons. Check your map. You will be tested. When my parents visited the country a few years ago, they brought me back ni-Vanuatu black pepper. (I'm a pepper fan.)

So the islands have been inhabited for a few thousand years—the early settlers were Melanesians, like in the other islands of this region. Europeans began to explore the area in the early 17th century—in 1606 the Spanish found the islands, and initially thought they were part of that Terra Australis it took them all so long to bump into. Speaking of Terra Australis, it was only after Captain Cook visited Vanuatu (naming them the New Hebrides) that Europeans began to settled in the islands. In the late 19th century France became involved when the islands came under administration of a joint French-British naval commission. (Didn’t think the French and British did anything jointly? Guess you were wrong.)

Back to the horrors of the colonial mindset: in the late 19th century the indigenous population were subject to blackbirding—that is, they were taken away from their home and taken to Australia as indentured workers. Mostly sugar plantations. I hadn’t ever heard of this before, and I’m pretty appalled. I’m glad at least to have my own ignorance exposed. I’m going to read up more on the practice of blackbirding. I’m sure it will come up again.

Oh, and when you’re wandering around those South Pacific areas of the museum, really stop and take a look. The cultural artefacts are fascinating, and often quite beautiful.

Today’s poem comes from Nuanua: Pacific Writing in English Since 1980 and was written by the poet Sampson Ngwele.


Island Chant
(After a poster, Beaux-Arts, May 1968)

The men in power had their way
So did Martin Luther King
The men in power had their say
So did Steven Biko
The men in power had their guns
So did Che Guevara

So let’s go now:
Let’s go for their universities
Let’s go for their offies
Let’s go for their guns

Irian Jaya! New Caledonia!

Let’s go for their towers
Let’s go for their palaces
Let’s go for their thrones

Hawaii! Tahiti! American Somoa!

Let’s go for their strongholds
Let’s go for their fortresses
Let’s go for their gates

Polynesia! Micronesia! Melanesia!

Let’s go with their guns
Let’s go to their offices
And ask why they are here.

—Sampson Ngwele
from Nuanua: Pacific Writing in English Since 1980

Faroe Islands

Remember the Faroe Islands? That little cluster high above Scotland, halfway to Iceland? Today is Olavsoka in the Faroes—St Olaf’s Day. Olav is the patron saint of the Faroes, and this is one of the parts of the world where that is a big deal. Saint days for specific places allow the same kind of celebration of national culture that Independence and National days do elsewhere. Whenever I look at pictures of the Faroe Islands I want to go—they don’t look like a place to go partying, but a pretty, quiet place. The perfect location for a writing cabin? Maybe. Oh, and Tinganes, the seat of the islands’ government, is a beautiful colour red, located right on the water. Lovely.

The Faroes are officially an autonomous province of Denmark—apparently this makes them a member of the Rigsfællesskab, which I have just learned is just the Danish term for the relationship between Denmark and its self-governed insular regions—Greenland, then, is also a “member.”

The history that we do have of the islands starts, of course, with some Irish monks. (All good history should…) Some hermits took themselves to the island, bringing sheep and oats with them (and then, I hope, ignoring each other in proper hermit-style) as well as the (early) Irish language. Also, Saint Brendan (you don’t remember when he lived? 484-578. Now study up on your hagiography, dear readers) is said to have visited the islands more than once. (More recently, Bill Clinton visited too. He clearly didn’t want to be outdone by Saint Brendan, who didn’t even have the advantage of Atlantic Airways.)

In the 7th century, Vikings set up shop, replacing the monks and other settlers, and replacing the Irish language with Old Norse—modern Faroese comes from this language. (My Old English teacher, to invoke him again, says that the Faroese language is still recognisable if you know Old Norse: in the more isolated regions, the language changes less, as it has less outside influence. There are a few islands off the coast of Maryland and Virginia in the US where it is said the inhabitants speak something similar to the Elizabethan English of the early settlers in the US—again, isolation. Why don’t you test it out? Study up on Old Norse, go to the Faroe Islands and pick up the local newspaper. Tell me what you can understand.)

Norwegians had control of the islands until Norway entered the Kalmar Union with Denmark, and when the union between Norway and Denmark ended in 1814, Denmark got custody, so to speak, of the islands. Oh—and until the 18th century, the population never exceeded 5000. These days its close to 50,000.

As nationalist movements were happening around Europe in the late 19th century, so too did nationalism hit the Faroes: the first step was built around keeping the Faroese language alive. The next step was political, with the foundation of local political parties early in the 20th century. Now the islands are autonomous, and take care of most things themselves—Denmark is in charge of defence, the legal system and foreign affairs. Interestingly, under stipulations in European Union treaties, inhabitants of the Faroes aren’t considered Danish nationals, and so they’re also not citizens of the European Union. Having now found out that all those living in the various French collectivities and departments are the world are in the European Union, I guess I find that a little surprising.

Still wondering about Saint Olaf? He was king of Norway from 1015-1038 (he was known as Olaf the Stout). He declared himself king, wiped out the kings to the south, married the Swedish Princess Ingegerd Olofsdotter without her father’s approval, and when Ingegerd died he married her half-sister, the illegitimate Astrid Olavsdttr, also the daughter of king Olof Skötkonung of Sweden. So where’s the saintliness?

Well, he Christianised Norway, and made efforts to establish greater church organization. Isn’t that enough? He was only officially canonised in 1888, but had been considered a saint long before that. Though he’s also the patron saint of Norway, the Faroe Islands are the only country/territory that keep St Olaf’s day as a holiday.

Looking around from a poem from the Faroe Islands I found this small piece by Christian Matras—translated from the Faroese by George Johnston. It originally comes from here.



Far Off the Sea

Softly falls the night

and children are in the field below the fences.

They run for the haybarn door

where shrunk boards leak

sweetness into the dusk.

Far off the sea whets his roar

in the hushed night between the hills.

—Christian Matras
translated from the Faroese by George Johnston

Wallis and Futuna

What’s that? You’ve never heard of Wallis and Futuna? Or maybe you’re laughing at me because, to tell you the truth, I never knew anything about Wallis and Futuna before either. I think I may have heard of Uvea—the Fakauvea name for the Wallis Islands, but I’m not one hundred percent sure of it. But there are around 15,000 inhabitants of the islands. They deserve their shout out. The islands are an overseas collectivity of France—since they have their own territory day to celebrate their culture, I pulled them out of the lump of French territories celebrating 14 July and gave them their own spot. The Wallis and Futuna Islands are in the South Pacific—the lie between Fiji and Samoa. Got the geography straight? Good. Grab some coconut juice.

Like a lot of this region of the world it was in the 17th and 18th centuries that these island were first visited by Europeans. Wallis—no, the name doesn’t sound very French—is named after the Brit Samuel Wallis, explorer extraordinaire. The locals got along fairly happily, even after French missionaries converted them to Catholicism, until in 1842 they asked for French protection: part of the population had rebelled, and the other part didn’t like that much. In 1887 this relationship was formalised when the queen of Uvea signed off on the treaty that official made the islands a protectorate. Until 1959 the islands were under the authority of New Caledonia—then they voted to go from protectorate status to territory status.

So there’s still a monarchy in place. In fact, traditionally there are three kings—the King of Uvea, the King of Alo and the King of Sigave. The recent king of Uvea, King Tomasi Kulimoetoke II, got in some hot water when he gave his grandson sanctuary after said grandson was convicted of manslaughter. Not happy with the French legal system he declared that his grandson should be judged under tribal law. The population did not, shall we say, whole-heartedly concur. There were riots, resulting in victory for the pro-Tomasi side. Still, it comes late in the game—Tomasi Kulimoetoke died in May 2007. Officially there was a six month mourning period, and mentioning a successor was taboo. It’s only this month that a new king has been announced—the role goes to Kapiliele Faupala. He joins King Visesio Moeliku of Sigave. I don’t think there’s currently a King of Alo—one short of a triumvirate. Oh, and the King of Tonga will be helping celebrate the coronation of Faupala. I haven’t heard whether Nicolas Sarkozy was invited.

A poem? Yes, a poem. I was afraid it would give me some trouble, but I tracked one day. It’s from the book entitled Uvea: Uvea. (This is currently my favourite book title out there.) I found it online here. Our poet is Virginie Tafilagi.


Poem

Below the chest, around the waist
Tattooed bark-cloths float and swirl.
Around the ankles and the wrists
Woven lafo intertwine.
The adorned stand up, move forward,
The mala’e becomes silent.

If the just word is joyous
Let it now be spoken!

           On the bold canoe, still unmoving,
           Our tears soar to the firmament:

                       In our bodies and in our hands,
                       Crushed against the silence
                       Lies the impatient hope
                       Of the sons and daughters of the land of Uvea.
                                   
         Let those who no longer feel it
         Reconquer its memory
          Let rip the shrouding veils!
          May the boldest delight in shattering
          The keen-edged flight.
                                     
                        In our hearts and in our souls,
                        Sailing ceaselessly on,
                        Is our mighty dream
                        For the children of the land of Uvea.

            Let those who do not share it
            Put out to sea.
            Be wakeful if you will!
            Let the toughest delight in taming
            The crashing trade winds.
  
            May the oar of the Ocean
            Rid us of them forever.
            May the blood-red Earth
            Breathe fire into us at last.

The choirs have struck up the ancient songs
Which alone the Sons of the earth yearn to hear,
The chanted Word governs all their dances
Toward the sacred forest where the voyage begins,

Now!

—Virginie Tafilagi

Peru

I was wondering recently why it is I’ve always wanted to go to Peru—long before I knew about Incas and Machu Picchu. It took me longer than it should have to figure it out. It’s all about Paddington Bear. I loved Paddington growing up, with his duffle coat and wellies and marmalade sandwiches. Before landing at Paddington Station with his beat up old suitcase, Paddington had voyaged from “Darkest Peru.” That phrase is so evocative. From 28-29 July Peru celebrates its Independence Day (the declaration was made on 28 July 1821, but I suppose it really is worth celebrating for two days) and I know Paddington would want you to join me in raising a glass to all those Peruvians.

Peru has been inhabited by humans for something like 13,000 years. Prior to the emergence of the Incas, thee were plenty of other cultures, including the Mochica (responsible for the Moche “pyramids”) and the Nazca, to whom the Nazca Lines are often attributed.

Then came the Spanish—in 1532 conquistadors beat out the Inca Emperor Atahualpa and under Francisco Pizarro’s leadership brought Spanish rule to the country. For a while Spain was pretty happy with the revenue Peru provided, but in the 18th century silver production dropped off. The Spanish Crown decided to increase taxes to wring some extra money out of the country, and Peruvians responded with rebellion. None of these were successful in the 18th century.

Then came Simón Bolívar in the 19th century. After other wars of independence had been fought, Bolívar and José de San Martín came along with a military campaign, bringing about Peru’s independence.

It hasn’t all been smooth sailing—in the War of the Pacific (1878-1883) Peru lost to Chile, which resulted in the loss of some of Peru’s territory.

In the 20th century there has been a coup—in 1968 General Juan Velasco Alvarado led the Armed Forces against president Fernando Belaunde. After 7 years in power, Velasco was forcefully replaced in 1975. More recently there’s been concern over debt, inflation, drug trafficking and political violence. The scene has improved since the 1980s, but accusations still emerge—while things were improving between 1990 and 2000, the 2000 elections were considered fraudulent.

Today’s poem is by César Vellajo—while there were only three books published while he was alive, he’s on any greatest hits list for twentieth century world poets.



The Eternal Dice

For Manuel Gonzalez Prada, this wild and unique feeling—one of those emotions which the great master has admired most in my work.

God of mine, I am weeping for the life that I live;
I am sorry to have stolen your bread;
but this wretched, thinking piece of clay
is not a crust formed in your side:
you have no Marys that abandon you!

My God, if you had been man,
today you would know how to be God,
but you always lived so well,
that now you feel nothing of your own creation.
And the man who suffers you: he is God!

Today, when there are candles in my witchlike eyes,
as in the eyes of a condemned man,
God of mine, you will light all your lamps
and we will play with the old dice…
Gambler, when the whole universe, perhaps,
is thrown down,
the circled eyes of Death will turn up,
like two final aces of clay.

My God, in this muffled, dark night,
you can’t play anymore, because the Earth
is already a die nicked and rounded
from rolling by chance;
and it can stop only in a hollow place,
in the hollow of the enormous grave.

—César Vellajo
from Modern Literature of the Non-Western World
translated from the Spanish by James Wright

Liberia

The Republic of Liberia fascinates me. So let’s think about the country now that it’s Liberia’s Independence Day—independent in 1847 from the United States.

There have been people living in the region at least since the 12th century—people shifted west as inland area experienced desertification. It’s tropical. It’s coastal. I imagine it’s not quite a beach holiday after wandering out of the desert, but that first sighting of the Atlantic must have been pretty amazing. Locals built canoes and traded with people around them. The ethnic Kru, early inhabitants of the region, started trading non-slave commodities with the Europeans, but then took a part in the slave trade too. And I find this interesting: Kru laborers took off from the area that is now Liberia to work on plantations and as construction workers all over the place. There were Kru working on the Suez Canal and the Panama Canal.

As Europeans were finding out what was out there in the wide world, they made contact with this region of Africa—from the mid-fifteenth century onwards there was trade with Portuguese, Dutch and British types.

This is the part that fascinates me: in 1822 the American Colonization Society (don’t you want to become a member of that club?) decided to establish Liberia and send freed African-American slaves there. So I guess the mentality was now that they’re free, we don’t want them in our community. Why not ship them off the Africa? Did they come from there? Good one.

Weren’t they brought from Africa how many centuries ago? Oh, and never mind that Africa is a big place—or that there are already people living in the area. Let’s give them a free country (we’ll call it Liberia to emphasise the point.) Anyway, the new immigrants were known as Americo-Liberians and on 26 July 1847 the Americo-Liberian settlers declared their independence from the US of A.

I guess it’s not surprising, then, that there were tensions between the locals and the new arrivals. At least the country stayed independent during the Scramble for Africa, and didn’t have another regime imposed on them.

More recently, some of you may remember 1980’s military coup or the 1989 and 2003 civil wars. Following the 1980 action, 1985 saw the first post-coup elections, which international observers agreed were fair. By 1989, though, Liberians weren’t happy with their president, Sergeant Samuel Doe’s, rule. Enter the civil war. The 1990s was a bloody time—insurgencies (one backed by Libya’s al-Gaddafi) assassination plots (against child rights activist Kimmie Weeks) and rebellion. So the 1989 outbreak of civil war bubbled along, till it gained new intensity in 2003 as the fighting moved into the capital.

Under international pressure to resign, President Charles Taylor left the country, first seeking asylum in Nigeria, later in Sierra Leone. Now he is to be tried at the Hague—the charges include violations of the Geneva Conventions and crimes against humanity.

In 2005 Liberia elected Africa’s first female head of state in Ellen Johnson-Sirleaf. Johnston-Sirleaf is also the daughter of the first indigenous Liberian elected to the national legislature and a Harvard-trained economist to boot. She’s been working to get Liberia’s external debt cancelled, as well as to address the crimes of the civil war period by establishing a Truth and Reconciliation Commission.

Today’s poem comes from the book Ebony Dust by Liberian poet Bai T. Moore. Along with his own poems he included translations of Liberian songs, and I have chosen one of the latter from the Vai people.

Fulee (Departed One)

Vai          kaamu banda mui belea keims
                a kele ma muma
                m maa fo a la my to pen
                mu toa kasa jei bonda
                wanga jaa jila la koa

English   When he mingled with us
                we did not long for him
                not until he left us
                before we shed our useless tears
                before we obligated ourselves
                to show off to the world

—Bai T. Moore
translated by the author
from Ebony Dust

Maldives

So you’re listing the countries of Asia. You’re doing well—you’re proud of yourself that you remembered Sri Lanka, and at least a few of the former SSRs. The Maldives? Oops! I forgot about those little islands southwest of India. Why don’t we remember them now? 26 July is Independence Day in the Maldives—in 1965 they gained their independence from the United Kingdom.

Oh, and population-wise, the Maldives is the smallest country in Asia. It’s also the smallest predominantly Muslim nation in the world. The country is the lowest in the world—the maximum natural ground level is 2.3 metres. No hills there. This obviously means that Maldivians are concerned about global warming—rising sea levels could submerge the entire nation.

Around the third century BCE Buddhism came to the Maldives, and this remained the main religion until the 12th century. From 1153 until 1968 the nation was governed as an Islamic sultanate—even during the period from 1887 until 1965 that it was a British protectorate. In the 1950s there was an attempt to become a republic, but the sultanate was quickly brought back. In 1968, however, the same move was successful: the monarchy was abolished and a republic declared—though in practice there wasn’t a huge change in the way the nation was governed.

In 1988 there was a coup. A group of Maldivians removed President Gayyoom from power, before the Indian military pitched in against the Tamil mercenaries that assisted with the coup, and Gayyoom was reinstated as president. The name of the Indian operation to restore the status quo? Operation Cactus. No, I don’t have any idea why that chose that name.

More recently, like so many nations, the country was devastated by the 2004 tsunami. While the death toll was low compared to some other nations, the damage was estimated at $400 million—which represents about 62 percent of the GDP of the Maldives. Fourteen islands were completely evacuated, while six were apparently “decimated.” Twenty-one resort islands had to shut down—while the locals might not have been the ones enjoying the resort islands, tourism is big business in the Maldives—and is the largest industry in the country. That’s got to hurt. Cartographers are actually planning to redraw maps of the nation, as the tsunami caused alterations.

Today’s poem is by Farah Didi. It comes from the wonderful Language for a New Century.


Dying for a Himalayan Dream

pristine white snow-capped peaks,
painted across the horizon,
above green clad foothills and valleys,
glacial waters cold and sullen,

meandering rivers now stand still,
where Sherpas carry their daily loads,
a fresh chill spreads along the wake
of footsteps over virgin snows,

a crimson range stenciled in the sky,
bleeding in the evening light,
half-shadowed flotilla of clouds,
descends into a misty night,

trudging against the hostile glare,
a ghostly moon to guide along,
with frozen breaths they suck the air,
as she pulls them ever closer to her womb,

the people of the frozen tombs,
the final dream, the dizzy heights,
the chilling promise the goddess made,
the summit for their lives.

—Farah Didi,
from Language for a New Century

Puerto Rico

I wonder how some places escape a particular pop cultural association? Puerto Rico, for instance, is linked in my mind to West Side Story. Which is not to say that’s all I think of, but it’s like people mentioning Steve Irwin when I say I’m Australian. Not that I mind that—he was a top bloke—but it must be frustrating. Of course this year’s primaries in the endless American election gave us another spotlight on Puerto Rico, and Hillary’s support-base there. So, it’s a Caribbean island, to the east of the Dominican Republic, and it’s an unincorporated territory of the United States.

Not a lot is know about the period before Columbus sailed into the New World. First there were Ortoiroid people—apparently they were fishermen. Yum. Fish. Early in the common era the Igneri arrived from the Orinoco area of South America. Later the Taíno culture developed. And then 1492 brought our old chum Chris.

Not long after Europe’s discovery of the island, Spain colonised it. Taínos were enslaved, and their population was severely reduced when both their extreme working conditions and disease brought death. Still, it didn’t take long for a Taíno revolt—in 1511 they drowned the Spanish soldier Diego Salcedo. Oh! They drowned him in order to find out if the Spanish were immortal. It’s so interesting that different ethnic groups meeting for the first time might assign supernatural abilities to another. They watched his drowned bodies for three days just to make sure he was really dead. Unfortunately for the Taínos, their revolt didn’t earn them freedom—it was quickly put down by Ponce de León. With the Taínos dying rapidly, they were replaced in the form of African slaves. Spain kept tight control on the island, as it remained an important port for the Spanish Empire.

It was during the Spanish-American war that the United States invaded Puerto Rico—when this war ended, Spain ceded Puerto Rico, Cuba, Guam and the Philippines to the US. 25 July was the date of the arrival of US troops in 1898, and on that day in 1952 Governor Muñoz Marín proclaimed the local constitution. Obviously, as we saw in the primary, the relationship between Puerto Rico and the US is still under debate.

Today’s poem is by Judith Ortiz Cofer—it comes from The Oxford Book of Caribbean Verse. As well as writing poetry, she has also written short stories, essays, young adult novels and autobiography. I’ve chosen her poem “Under the Knife” for this project.


Under the Knife

My aunt wipes blood from her knife
across a kitchen towel, spilling
the thick contents of a just decapitated
hen into the sink.
I feel slightly nauseated but must
forbear for her sake. Childless
family martyr, renowned for her patience
with human frailty, and her cooking.
Her man drinks, she has failed three times
at childbearing. She squeezes the last
of the blood from the neck and a blue button
falls into her hand. Rinsing it, she drops it
into her apron pocket. And as she places the
pale carcass and the knife before me, she explains
how to cut the pieces with even, forceful
strokes: no hacking. She is under
no obligation to be kind.
The mothers and the daughters
have given her a lifetime license to mourn,
and like a queen in exile she acknowledges
nothing as a privilege. The pale fingers
of my aunt work with precision over
the pink flesh, showing me just how
to separate the tough from the tender.

—Judith Ortiz Cofer
from The Oxford Book of Caribbean Verse

Egypt

Ah, Cleopatra.

On 23 July Egypt celebrates Revolution Day. We all need a bit of revolution from time to time, right? Yes, it’s all very well to have sphinxes and pyramids and hieroglyphs, an amazing history and a canal. But sometimes you need to shake things up, too.

We know that there have been people living in Egypt for millennia. That about 8000 years ago agriculture and construction emerged. We know about Pharaohs. We know that Cleopatra was a quite a lady, captivating first Julius Caesar and then Marc Antony. We know that later on Egypt became part of the Byzantine empire—right?

Oh, and I guess for those of us who have watched The Ten Commandments every year at Easter growing up, we know that Moses had a few things to accomplish in Egypt before leading the Jews through the Red Sea and across the Sinai Desert. (My Old English teacher used to talk about this, expressing his disbelief at this part—the Sinai is a small desert, he said. Walk a straight line in any direction, it’s not going to take you 40 days to cross. Try three. Still, it’s easy to get turned around in deserts…)

Let’s skip ahead, because I’m not seeing much about pirates in the history in front of me. The Suez Canal. Good stuff. I visited the Panama Canal a few months ago, so obviously the Suez Canal goes on my list of things to see in the future. I’ve become a canal fan.

And then there’s Revolution Day. In 1962 the Free Officers Movement led a military coup that removed the Egyptian monarchy and established the country as a republic. The future president Gamal Abdul Nasser was part of the movement that brought about this change of power structure. (The first president of Egypt was Muhammad Naguib—he lasted about a year.)

And for a poem? Why, I thought you’d never ask. Today I have a poem for you by Amal Dunqul, “The City of Wrecked Ships.” I need to take better notes, because I can’t remember where in all my many library trips and web searches I found this one. Hopefully I’ll update that later.


The City of Wrecked Ships

I feel I am alone tonight;
and the city, with its ghosts and tall
buildings, is a wrecked ship
that pirates looted long ago
and sent to the oceans’ bottom.
At that time the captain leaned his head
against the railing. Beneath his feet
lay a broken wine bottle, shards
of a precious metal. And the sailors
clung to the silent masts,
and through their ragged clothes
swan sad fish of memory.
Silent daggers, growing moss, baskets
of dead cats… Nothing pulses
in this acquiescent world.

—Amal Dunqul
translated from Arabic by Sharif S. Elmusa and Thomas G Ezzy

Belgium

Did Belgium reach it’s sporting apex with the series of all-Belgian women’s Grand Slam Finals a few years back? A French speaker and a Flemish speaker staring at each other across the net? Now that’s something to ponder. (I definitely had a bias during those finals, but I’ll try not to let that shine through here. Still, I was a fan of one player, and not a fan at all of the other. Intrigue.)

Why on earth am I starting out with tennis? 21 July is Belgium’s National Day—or Fête Nationale for those on the French side of the equation, Nationale Feestdag for the Flemish. What’s tennis got to do with it?

Well, when do you ever hear about Belgium in the news? I mean, yes, it hosts the headquarters of the European Union, and the headquarters of NATO. But while you might hear about them meeting in Brussels, does that really qualify as Belgian news? In this world, sporting stardom is king.

So is chocolate. My housemate came home from a trip to Brussels with a postcard for my collection, and a bar of some very, very fine chocolate. The chocolate didn’t last long. (I have Icelandic chocolate awaiting me in my pantry now…)

So, there was Gallia Belgica under the Romans, and then Germanic tribes started moving in over the course of the 5th century. In the 14th and 15th centuries a lot of the region that comprises modern Belgium became part of the Burgundian Netherlands. Then there was rule by the Spanish and the Austrian Habsburgs, until the French Revolutionary Wars saw a lot of the region annexed to the French First Republic. In 1830 Belgium became independent.

Have another chocolate. And while you’re savouring that, may I suggest a Tintin adventure?

So, Belgium is a constitutional monarchy and a parliamentary democracy. If you find yourself in the royal court I suggest you bow to King Albert II. It’s polite.

And please, next time you see Flemish tapestries, take some time to really look at them. They’re amazing pieces of art. Speaking of art, there are plenty of major Flemish artists. And somehow I never knew that René Magritte (Ceci n’est pas une pipe) was Belgian. Ignorance on my part.

I haven’t previously read a lot of Belgian literature—I have, however, read several books by Amélie Nothomb. She’s definitely an author worth checking out. And we’ve heard of Georges Simenon, yes? (I will read him too…) Another writer I’m ashamed to say I never knew was Belgian is Maurice Maeterlinck—I expect a lot of you don’t know much about the chap. I know him best for his libretto for Debussy’s Pelléas et Mélisande: I studied it intensively before I worked on my first opera, both as a librettist and a composer.

All this talk of literature brings us to the poem portion of our celebration of all things Belgian. Today’s poem is a section of a longer work, “Linnaeus’ clock,” by the poet Werner Lambersy. It was translated from the French by Nora Makhoul, and comes from New European Poets. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: buy this anthology.

from Linnaeus’ clock

The finite and the infinite
were on the road together

One of them said
now I’ve arrived

Do you think so said the other
and he lifted his still-
too-young brother
onto his shoulders

He 
from the height of his perch
told about the road
interpreted the landscape

For the other was blind
from birth
and could only look
within himself

But that was why
the song had chosen him

   *

There’s a cry
we don’t have it

But there’s a cry
uttered by the dead
within their death

A cry so long
that those who utter it
no longer need
to move their lips or
close their mouths

So we confuse it
like a star
behind another
closer one

With the great silence
which came before

   *

May an unanswered mystery
fill and impregnate
your song

May it be a warm garment
in the sweat of those
who, for a long time, wore it

and may it speak of time but
no more than the broom bush dows

Whose seedpods scatter
in the sunlight like
holiday firecrackers. 

—Werner Lambersy
translated from the French by Nora Makhoul
from New European Poets

Guam

On 21 July Guam celebrated Liberation Day. Liberation? World War II, my readers. Guam was occupied by the Japanese between December 1941 and July 1944. Incidentally, alongside the economic boost provided by US military bases, tourism is another big industry—tourists mostly come from Japan. Guam is one of those Pacific islands. It’s beaches look very pretty. I would like to visit it too…

Now I know you all suspect that, despite my interest in national identities, national histories and national literatures, I am really quite shallow. It was on your mind, right? So, to prove you right, I first became aware of Guam when I watched (many, many times) the movie Girls Just Want to Have Fun. The opening scene? A very young Sarah Jessica Parker on her first day at her new Catholic girls’ school. Explaining that her father is in the army, so she’s moved around a lot. “Eleven different schools—but the uniforms always the same. Even on Guam.”

So the island has been inhabited for about 4000 years—the earliest arrivals were the Chamorros. (It’s thought they came from Indonesia.) As I’m reading and writing I’m finding out that what’s known about the Chamorros comes, aside from the usual archaeological evidence, largely from folklore, observations from visiting scientists, and the accounts of Jesuit missionaries. I’m always strangely pleased when the Jezzies get involved—and far too irreverent. Apologies.

Hey! There are Latte Stones on Guam. Look them up. They kind of rock.

Oh! Someone introduced the cane toad to the island. That is really not a good move, based on the Australian experience of the critters. (My brothers used to find really big ones and put them on my head and shoulders when I was two or three. Trauma.)

And then, say hello to Ferdinand Magellan, who visited in 1521 while circling the globe. Forty years later the Spanish claimed the island and began to colonize, making the island part of the Spanish East Indies, and governed from the Philippines.

Then the United States came along in 1898 with the Spanish-American War. After taking control of the island, Guam became a station for ships going to and from the Philippines. In 1950 Guam was established as an organized territory of the US, and the people became US citizens.

And a poem? I’ve got one for you… “Poakeiiukala” by Emelihter Kihlend. I found it online here.

Poakeiiukala

although given as gift

it never really belonged to you

hand-carved, dark brown wood

with sharp teeth, ready

even a curve in the body

propelling it forward for attack

it swam here in the suitcase

all the way from Porakied

nearly drowning in your cold room in Pauoa Valley

but it found me and now it breathes

— Emelihter Kihleng

Poakeiiukala – To feel sorry for; pity. Poake means shark. A section of Kolonia, Pohnpei where people from Kapingamarangi atoll live. The Kapinga people make and sell beautiful handicrafts in Porakied.

Colombia

Okay, first things first: it’s not all rebels, drug lords and lawlessness. It’s not. You meet a Colombian who’s just been getting along for the last forty years, and you see what lovely, lovely people they are. Yes, you see Colombia in the news and you’ll hear about the FARC or about the war on drugs or about kidnappings, hostages, human rights abuses… It’s a bleak recent history. But there’s more to Colombia. There are films, there’s art. And—there are poets. Oh, and my favourite story about Colombia comes from an Australian poet, who visited as a guest of a poetry festival. She described a rather jolty landing on her plane trip into the country. As the plane eased onto the tarmac (rather bumpy, but no harm done) the locals burst into applause. She was told that every time a plane lands safely—which is, after all, the vast majority of the time—it’s still seen as a minor miracle. I thought this was wonderful. Of course, when I’ve asked Colombians I’ve met in my own travels if it is true, I’ve been told more than once that they never heard of the phenomenon. Maybe the applause came because it was such a bumpy landing? Either way, I like the story.

20 July is Independence Day in Colombia. Obviously, their independence is from Spain: on 20 July 1810 they declared independence. It took just over nine years for independence to be recognised: 7 August, 1819.

Colombia has been inhabited for thousands of years—it’s believed there were societies around present-day Bogotá around 10,000 BCE. These societies, in the first millennium BCE, developed political systems that, with the exception of the Incas, were the most complicated in South America. But then our old friend Columbus came along, and the Spaniards decided to conquer the region. Wars and, of course, disease, dramatically reduced the indigenous population.

Rebel movements, obviously, are not new to Colombia—rallying for independence is, until it’s achieved, considered a rebel movement. At least by the coloniser… And from the time of conquest, the locals were pretty keen on getting their autonomy back. While early attempts were “put down” (now there’s a euphemism) swiftly, the 1810 movement was successful. Simón Bolívar played a role in this success, and became the first president of the new country.

When I was in Panama a month and a half ago, I met a guy who was about to embark on an adventure: he was taking a boat through the Panamanian San Blas archipelago—an autonomous region that the indigenous Kuna govern—on to Cartagena in Colombia. I haven’t heard how the trip ended up, but it sounded amazing.

Oh, and let’s not forget Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Or Shakira. In fact, let’s invite them both to a tea party.

In the mean time, how about a poem? Here’s an “Invocation” by Alvaro Mutis from the Anthology of Contemporary Latin American Literature 1960-1984.


Invocation

Who convoked these characters here?
With what words were they called?
Why have they been allowed to use the time
and substance of my life?
Where are they from and where does the anonymous
destiny that made them parade before us
take them?

Lord, let forgetfulness gather them.
Quiet their impertinent pain,
give rest to their impure souls.
Let them find peace within it.

I don’t know, in truth, who they are,
nor why they came to me
to share the brief instant of the white page.
They are vain people,
and liars besides.
Lucky that their memory begins to vanish
in the merciful nothing
that will house us all.
So let it be.

—Alvaro Mutis
translated by Roberto-Selim Picciotto
from Anthology of Contemporary Latin American Literature 1960-1984

France

Too many entries for you? Blame France. (I would just like to add that, while it may be the English thing to do—to “blame France”—and, these days, quite possibly the American thing to do as well, I never came across anyone in Australia who decided France was the scapegoat par excellence.) Since I’ve tried to include territories in this project (and I’ve started to find territories that I’ve missed… these will be rectified, most likely next year) suddenly I find that a lot of the territories or departments or collectivities of France don’t have their own established days to celebrate their own culture, but instead celebrate Quatorze Juillet along with France. Or, as we in other parts of the world think of it, Bastille Day. (Yes, the storming of the Bastille was symbolic rather than truly revolutionary—there were barely more than half a dozen prisoners.)

We know about France, right? There was a revolution (“Let them eat cake”—oh, and she never said it) and there was a short Napoleonic guy who declared himself emperor, before languishing in St Helena. There was a commune in Paris, right? And a hunchback in the belltower? (Okay, that one was fictional.) And, of course, there is wine, cheese. There are baguettes and pastries. I’m guessing if modern visitors heard anyone say “Let them eat cake,” they’d say “yes please!” And, in Hollywood land, we have the outrageous French accent. (I don’t know how to spell that so it reflects the outrageous French accent. Sorry.)

So I’m not going to skip through French history. There’s so, so much of it. Can I just say, though, don’t forget Corsica. The beautiful island that, at the moment, belongs to France. (It was previously Italian and Spanish—and for a brief moment, it belonged to itself. There’s a separatist movement that occasionally makes international headlines—and their culture is different enough from France that it’s hard to realize you’re in France when you’re there.) In the mean time, it’s a pristine piece of France. Also, a number of 19th century novelists used Corsica to inject a little exoticism into their narratives. The best example? The vengeful Count of Monte Cristo is a Corsican. Oh my god, if you haven't read it, DO. I was given a copy for my 18th birthday, and read it for 10 hours a day for two days. I couldn't put it down. Corsica is the home of the vendetta.

We have Cartier-Bresson’s images of Paris—as well as Eugene Atget’s. And there are the images of the Eiffel Tower (which, in The Shock of the New, Robert Hughes cites as an important beacon of modernism—they didn’t ask an architect to design it, but an engineer. Brave New World).

And, there is the Paris of Before Sunset.

There are the artists—both the French and the outsiders who came to France at different times to take part in the Bohemian arts communities that, at different times, have been part of the country.

And, of course, there are the poets. Rimbaud. Baudelaire. Mallarmé. Lately? How about Yves Bonnefoy? Yves who?, you ask. Bonnefoy. He’s a very important 20th century poet, and so I’ve decided he is the one for the project. The poem below is from a long sequence. I found it online here.

The House where I was Born

I

I woke up, it was the house where I was born,
Sea foam splashed against the rock,
Not a single bird, only the wind to open and close the wave,
Everywhere on the horizon the smell of ashes,
As if the hills were hiding a fire
That somewhere else was burning up a universe.
I went onto the veranda, the table was set,
The water knocked against the legs of the table, the sideboard.
And yet she had to come in, the faceless one,
The one I knew was shaking the door
In the hall, near the darkened staircase, but in vain,
So high had the water already risen in the room.
I took the handle, it was hard to turn,
I could almost hear the noises of the other shore,
The laughter of the children playing in the tall grass,
The games of the others, always the others, in their joy.

—Yves Bonnefoy
translated from the French by John T. Naughton

French Guiana

French Guiana. Brought to you by: France. A “department” of France, French Guiana celebrates Fête Nationale along with the best of the baguette-eaters. It’s the only region of the South American continent that isn’t an independent nation these days. As with the other northern regions of South America, it's also got a distinctly Caribbean feeling - especially as one of the non Spanish/Portuguese speaking territories. It’s another one of those places that Christopher Columbus bumped up against in his travels. Hey—where Columbus went aren’t pirates supposed to follow? Haven’t come across piratical stories in my brief sojourn through all things French Guianian. Flags? Well, obviously the French flag is the only official flag. There’s the local flag with the country’s name and logo. There’s also the flag advocated by the French Guiana Liberation Movement. The latter (the green, gold and red) has no official status.

The French first tried to settle in the area in the early 17th century, but the Portuguese weren’t happy with that—they left the area for a while, but returned by mid-century to set up shop. After attacks by Amerindians they abandoned their settlement again, returning 20 years later, in 1663. A few years later the country was taken by the British—but only for a matter of months. Later the Dutch also briefly occupied the region, but also left quickly.

When Robespierre was executed in 1794, the French thought that French Guiana might be a good place to send some of his followers—193 were subsequently dispatched. Dispatched is right: within three years only 54 of that 193 were left, most having died of fancy tropical diseases.

So we know about slaves and plantations. Cayenne pepper was popular, as were sugar, spices and hardwood. All things nice… Like in Guyana, escaped slaves set up Maroons, or Maroon colonies. With no slave labour, plantations quickly became overgrown and the planters that had prospered not long before found themselves in financial ruin.

And then there came convicts. Coming from what was once the largest prison on earth, so to speak, I like to hear about other nations used as penal colonies. France didn’t want their criminals—especially the reoffenders. Anyone with more than three sentences of more than three months each was sent to French Guiana—there they would spend 6 months in jail, and then become free to settle in the colony. Unfortunately, the prisoners had a problem making a living off the land, and we back to their criminal ways.

The penal colonies were only phased out in the 20th century—they closed in 1951. Unfortunately for those doing time in French Guiana, they could only return to France if they had the money to get back—basically a forced separation from homeland occurred.

In the past decade there have been protests—protesters demand greater autonomy in their territory, though most don’t want complete independence due to the economic support France provides.

And that all brings us to the poem. This one’s by Léon-Gontran Damas, and comes from The Oxford Book of Caribbean Verse. As ever, our thanks and blessings go to the translator. Thankyou E. Anthony Hurley!



So often my feeling of race
strikes the same fear
as the nighttime howling of a dog

at some approaching death
I always feel
about to foam with rage
against what surrounds me
against what prevents me
ever
from being
a man

And nothing
nothing would so calm my hate
as a great
pool
of blood
made
by those long sharp knives
that strip the hills of cane
for rum.


—Léon-Gontran Damas
from The Oxford Book of Caribbean Verse
translated from the French by E. Anthony Hurley

Saint Pierre et Miquelon

Moving through the little slices of French territory around the world, I’ll forgive you for perhaps forgetting Saint Pierre et Miquelon—I’m guessing there are a lot of people who couldn’t point to this island group on a map. Caribbean? No. African? No. Oceania? No. The islands—population not much over 6,000—are just south of Newfoundland. It’s French status is a hangover from the colonial territory of New France. And so it celebrate’s France’s Fête Nationale.

Before the Europeans arrived, it’s thought there were some prehistoric inhabitants—most likely the same group that inhabited Newfoundland. And then Europeans arrive, some time around the early 16th century.

The British attacked the islands a few times—they also took possession of them for the fifty years from 1713 to 1763. After the French took the islands back there was about 15 years of peace before they got passed back and forth a few more times. After 1815 they stayed with France—and the islands were quite prosperous, until the local fishing industry began to decline.

Things did perk up a bit with prohibition—the islands were, apparently, a handy spot for those smuggling alcohol. No mention of pirates in my reading, but, honestly, smugglers are just as good.

Also interesting is the fact that the guillotine was only ever used in North America once: in Saint-Pierre. The guillotine used was shipped from Martinique, and didn’t arrive in working order. Then there was trouble finding an executioner—eventually a recent immigrant agreed to the job. Want to see it? Go to Saint-Pierre’s museum.

It didn’t find a poem by an islander—I guess with such a small population that’s not so hard to believe. But I found a piece by William Henry Drummond—he was born in Ireland and moved to the French portion of Canada. He published a couple of books in the 19th century, and in this poem, illustrating the dialect of English-speakers in the region he lived, he mentions the islands a number of times. This is a small portion of what is a much longer piece. I found it online here.


from The Rose Delima

You can sew heem up in a canvas sack,
     An’ t’row heem over boar’
You can wait till de ship she ’s comin’ back
     Den bury heem on de shore
For dead man w’en he ’s dead for sure,
     Ain’t good for not’ing at all
An’ he’ll stay on de place you put heem
     Till he hear dat bugle call
Dey say will soun’ on de las’, las’ day
W’en ev’ry t’ing ’s goin’ for pass away,
But down on de Gulf of St. Laurent
     W’ere de sea an’ de reever meet
An’ off on St. Pierre de Miquelon,
     De chil’ren on de street
Can tole you story of Pierre Guillaume,
     De sailor of St. Yvonne
Dat’s bringin’ de Rose Delima home
     Affer he ’s dead an’ gone

—William Henry Drummond

Réunion

I’m not sure if today marks an independence overdose, or a non-independence overdose—after all, we’re celebrating all these territories today because they are part of France, and they don’t have a separate day on which they take a holiday in order to celebrate their own culture. Instead, Fête Nationale rolls around. Réunion is another of these territories—or, actually, it’s a department of France, and it also uses the Euro. Some trivia? It was actually the first region in the world to use the euro, as its time zone put it ahead of the rest of Europe in introducing it. The first purchase? A bag of lychees. Réunion is between Madagascar and Mauritius. The official flag is French. The flag at the left is the flag proposed by the Vexillological Association of Réunion.

While there Arab sailors had visited the island previously (They named it Adna Al Maghribain) when Europeans arrived they found no-one living there, and the Portuguese named it Santa Apollonia. And then the French arrived—people came over from Mauritius and the island was administered from Port Louis. The French first called the island Île Bourbon, but in 1793 they renamed the island Réunion, after the fall of the House of Bourbon. (Pesky revolution…) It didn’t stick the first time, though—in 1801 the island was renamed Île Bonaparte (I wonder who that could have been in honour of?) and, when the British captured the island in 1810, they decided to keep calling it Bourbon. Even when France got it back in 1815, it stayed Bourbon until 1848, when it switched back to Réunion. Yes. It’s confusing. But after 1848 it hasn’t changed names anymore. Phew.

In recent years, Réunion hit the news when it was hit by an epidemic of chikungunya—similar to dengue fever, the disease hit over a quarter of a million people on the island—around a third of the population.

Réunion’s poem is by Danyel Waro—I found it online here. The introductory note comes from the same website.


Explosion 
This song makes a parallel between two systems of dehumanisation in Réunion: one older, 
acknowledged and better known–slavery, the other more modern, more subtle–exile and de- 
culturalisation through departmentalisation. 
 
 


Banm Kalou Banm 
 


Way out at high sea, they say, it used to be 

The big white lords ran their ships above board

On those ships long ago, they say, way below 

Were many black men – like so many beasts 
 


They roll to the right

They bathe in their blood 

They roll to the left: 

The sea's endless flood 
 


Banm kalou banm! 
 


The oldtimers say when the overlords ruled
Even black brothers killed one another 

Driven to rage by the pain they endured

The red of the surge when the flamboyant blooms 



The blood dries at last over our past 

But the sore festers still – the boil never burst 
 


Banm kalou banm! 



Even now, you see, we skip overseas

Jobless, we look elsewhere for work 

Soon, you see, I'll be taking a plane

To leave my homeland – Reunion Island 



Immigrants today, slaves long ago

Paris is pretty, so all our young go… 
 


Vronm kalou vronm! 



The tyrants today aren't like they were then 

The whip they crack is their snobbish talk 

They make their money with their pretty French 

Not one bit of Creole in all their fine speech 

Meanwhile their people fight to cry out

To hell with your school, we'll find our own way! 
 


Banm kalou banm!


—Danyel Waro

Mayotte

You all remember Mayotte, right? The little group of islands and islets in the Mozambique Channel? Between Madagascar and Mozambique? I thought so. As another overseas collectivity of France, it too celebrates Fête Nationale—next year its voting on becoming an overseas department or territory. And of course the French flag is the official flag, but there's also a local (unofficial) flag.

So Mayotte and Comoros share a common history—Mayotte used to be part of the nation of Comoros. So, in 1500 the Mawuti sultanate was established on the island, followed only a few years later (1503) by the first observation by Europeans. The Portuguese. In the 19th century Mayotte was conquered and passed hands a few times, before, in 1843, it was ceded to France. When the Comoros archipelago held its referendum on separation from France, Mayotte decided to keep its ties to France, while Comoros became an independent nation. Comoros claimed the island was part of their nation, but when a draft resolution was put before the UN in 1976 to recognize Comorian sovereignty over Mayotte, France vetoed it.

It’s been a complicated situation for France—apparently the numbers in favour of Mayotte staying part of France were significant. On the other hand today there’s a general tenor of international governments keen to see former colonies cut their ties with their colonizers.

What I’ve found from Mayotte is a section of a folktale—it’s from an article on Comorian folklore, since the background to the region’s myths and legends is the same. It was quoted by Masseande Chami Alaoui in his “Genres of Comoran Folklore,” from Journal of Folklore Research, Vol 34, No. 1 Jan-April 1997.


Baye Kwembe

There was a man called Mwalimu Guwu. He came from Ikoni, that is why he was called Mwalimu Guwu.

There was a man in Mbadjini, that man, he was a king, he had been told, a wise man had said to this king, “If a child is born this year, that is the end of you.” So he found a woman who was sick in a house there. She stayed there, and she had a child, and they took that child, and that child was called Bayi Kwembe, because when he was born, they wrapped him in cotton right away, put a blanket around him, put him in a box and threw him into the sea, and he came back in one place. He came back…he came back at Ikoni, and it was a fisherman of Ikoni who fished him out. They opened the box and found this little guy.

He stayed, he stayed a long time, and one day—he was born at Fumbuni—after they took him and sent him there, he stayed a long time. He had sores from the cotton they wrapped him in there. That’s why they called him Bayi Kwembe.

One day, a man said to him, “Do you know that sometimes they fight down there on the shore?” So he left, he took himself a piece of a paddle…and he broke up the battle. There was an old man. He said to him, “Don’t you know where you were born? You were born in Mbadjini. If I conquer this country for you, what will you give me?” He said, “Every time I win, I’ll give you some land.” So Mwalimu Guwu came to fetch him and they went off to war. With every victory they divided up the regions.

Martinique

Another French territory—or “overseas department”—another unofficial flag. Hey, but I didn’t know that as an overseas region of France, Martinique is part of the European Union. No wonder they celebrate Fête Nationale on 14 July. I’d probably celebrate it too for EU membership. Maybe. Oh, and an unofficial flag with a coiled snake? Why not? The snakes, for those wondering, are fer-de-lance vipers, which are native to Martinique. It’s actually a version of the old French ensign of the time.

And before the French? Both Arawak and Carib populations settled on the island before European colonization began. (Incidentally, I’m beginning to find the word colonization very creepy—I don’t know if its just writing so much about this age of empire building, or if science fiction movies about alien colonization play into it.)

The British had something of a habit of capturing French islands in the Caribbean. Martinique was no except—they held the island from 1762-1762. The French liked their sugar though and they decided they would trade Canada (yes, Canada) for Martinique and Guadeloupe. I’m still thinking about trading Canada for a few Caribbean islands. But that’s because I like big empty spaces more than I like pristine beaches. (I’m weird that way.) And I’m trying to give up sugar.

The capital of Martinique was St Pierre—that is, until 1902 when Mont Pelée erupted and wiped out the town. In a Pied Piper manner, all the inhabitants were killed—except one. A prisoner in a dungeon cell survived. Though the town was rebuilt, the capital shifted permanently to Fort-de-France.

Obviously I’ve chosen a poem by Aimé Césaire—obviously? The guy was a legend. (He died earlier this year, on 17 April. He was given a state funeral.) As well as being a major twentieth-century poet, Césaire was also an intellectual and activist. He was President of the Regional Council of Martinique for five years in the 1980s, too. This poem comes from The Oxford Book of Caribbean Verse.

Lost Body

          I who Krakatoa
I who much better than monsoon
I who chest open
I who Laëlaps
I who bleating better than a cloaca
I who off-scale
I who Zambezi or frenetic or rhombus or cannibal
I would like to be humbler and humbler and lower
always graver with neither vestige nor vertigo
until I lose myself fall
into the living semolina of well opened soil.
Outside a beautiful mist instead of atmosphere
would be not dirty
each drop of water in it making a sun
whose name the same for all things
would be TOTAL   AND   COMPLETE
ENCOUNTER
so that one could not be sure what is passing
whether a star or a hope
or a petal from the flamboyant tree
or an underwater retreat
streaked by the torches of the medusa aurelias
Then life I imagine would bathe me all over
better would I feel it touching me or biting me
As I lie I would see approaching me scents finally free
like helpful hands
and they would find a way to pass within me
to swing their long hair
longer than this past that I cannot reach.
Things move aside make space between you
space for my rest that bears like a wave
my terrible crest of anchoring roots
looking for somewhere to hold on to
Things I probe I probe
I the burden-bearer I am the root-bearer
And I weigh and I force and I arcane
          I omphale
Ah which takes me aback towards the harpoons
          I am very weak
I whistle yes I whistle very ancient things
of snakes of cavernous things
I gold now wind be still
and against my cool unstable muzzle
place against my eroded face
your cold face of canceled laughter.
The wind alas I shall hear it still
nigger nigger nigger from the depth
of the immemorial sky
not quite as loud as today
but too loud yet
and this mad howling of hounds and horses
that it sets on our ever-runware trail
but when my turn comes into the air
I will raise up a cry so violent
that I will spatter the sky utterly
and by my shredded branches
and by the insolent jet of my solemn wounded bole

          I shall command the islands to exist.

—Aimé Césaire
from The Oxford Book of Caribbean Verse
translated from the French by E. Anthony Hurley