Botswana

I love the word Botswana. I know that’s neither here nor there, but, well, I do. When the country was still a British protectorate, it was known as Bechuanaland—and there’s nothing wrong with that. Except—Botswana has, in my own mind, more romance. It’s the sound of it. It only became Botswana following independence (30 September, 1966) and we’re here to celebrate nationhood, right? Happy Botswana day! I assume you remember that Botswana sits between South Africa, Namibia, Zambia and Zimbabwe.

Bantu peoples arrived in Botswana sometime between 200 and 500 CE. I haven’t found a lot about the history at this stage—in fact (I wish I had time to check up multiple sources for every entry…) what I really know starts at the 19th century, and the Tswana people of Botswana came into conflict with the Ndebele tribes arriving from the Kalahari Desert—add to that a new batch of settlers, the Boers from Transvaal. Batswana leaders appealed for help, and, in 1885, became a protectorate of Britain. It remained separate when the Union of South Africa came about in 1910, though there were provisions for later incorporation into South Africa. This obviously never occurred, and when apartheid led to South Africa’s withdrawal from the Commonwealth, it became clear that Botswana was going to stay separate.

After Britain accepted proposals for Botswana’s self-government in 1964, the capital was moved from Mafikeng to the new city of Gaborone the following year. 1965 saw a new constitution and general elections, before the move to full independence in 1966. Oh—I haven’t found any coups in my reading (correct me if I’m wrong) though leadership has only passed through a few hands since independence, with the current president the son of the first president, and the presidency twice pasting to vice presidents. So, while it’s a multi-party democracy, the country has been dominated by the Botswana Democratic Party. I find that interesting. Economically the country is doing pretty well—not much foreign debt, and the country has gone from being one of the poorest countries in the world to a middle-income country.

It’s not all rosy. AIDS is a big problem here as elsewhere in Africa—in fact, Botswana has the second highest HIV infection rate in the world. Swaziland beats it.

Wildlife? Yes. We have lions, cheetahs, leopards, hyenas, wild dogs…

Today’s poem from Botswana is by Barolong Seboni. I found it online here. It's published in The Penguin Book of Modern African Poetry.

memory

life is but memories unborn

the world revolves
like a cranium
on the neck of time
we remember; we forget
then we die
hoping to become eternal
memories yet unborn.

between the begetting
and the forgetting,
in memory lies life.

— Barolong Seboni

New Caledonia

At my high school there was a choice between learning French and learning German. I spent a long time trying to make up my mind. In some way I’d spent all of primary school dreaming of learning French, then one day, I suppose, waltzing around fields of lavender, munching on baguettes and brie. Then, I chose German. (Anyone who knows me will realise this kind of last minute “let’s jump in the other boat!” reaction is not entirely unusual for me.) A lot of my classmates thought I was crazy. The reason? Well, I suppose some of them just wanted to speak French, but it was more that every second year the school organised a study trip to New Caledonia. As in: let’s go to the beach! Oh, and we’ll speak French. There are no German-speaking Pacific islands for Australian schoolchildren to go visit. (I fully enjoyed my experience learning German. Though I do want to go to New Caledonia.)

Which brings me to New Caledonia—yes, it’s a collectivity of France, not it’s own country. But it does get its own day—on 24 September this collectivity celebrates New Caledonia day. Oh, and while there is one main island, as there usually is in these countries and territories of the South Pacific, New Caledonia consists of several islands. With a place on the UN’s Committee on Decolonisation (I have to admit I didn’t realise this committee existed) list of Non-Self-Governing Territories, New Caledonia is due to hold a referendum on statehood sometime after 2014.

Settlers—the Austronesian Lapita people—arrived around three and a half thousand years ago, joined over two thousand years later by Polynesians. The French were a distant dream until Captain Cook came along, sighting the main island (Grande Terre, a feat of imaginative naming) in 1774. He’s the one that gave the territory the name New Caledonia—Caledonia comes from a Latin name for the area that is now Scotland. For some reason James Cook thought the island looked Scottish—well, like the northern islands of Scotland. Don’t ask me.

The French took over in 1853, when the French decided to give Britain a run for its money, trying to rival British holdings Australia and New Zealand. Not to be outdone by the likes of Magwitch (ooh! a Dickensian reference!) France decided that the south Pacific would also do nicely for its convicts, and over nearly sixty years sent 22,000 convicted felons to penal colonies in New Caledonia. So, not only did Europeans give the locals smallpox, measles, dysentery, syphilis, leprosy and the flu, they also brought in criminals. That’s very caring. What’s more, for a long time the indigenous Kanak people were subject to the Code de l’Indigénat, which I’m told is like apartheid, but, you know, in French.

An independence movement started in New Caledonia in 1985—the national liberation group (Front de Libération Nationale Kanak Socialiste) started agitating for an independent state of “Kanaky.” In 1988 the territory saw a hostage taking in Ouvéa, followed by the Matignon and Nouméa Accords of 1988 and 1998 respectively. While the referendum on independence is still some years away, in the mean time the authority of New Caledonia in its own governance has slowly increased.

I found today’s poem, by Nicolas Kurtovich, online here. There are some more of his poems available on the same page.

Poem for the Fourth of May

In the middle of the night men came
To bring the news that two men were dead
Before dawn we will have left the house

Mourned and met friends
Through the forest and very ancient pathways
There are so many things to say names to not forget

And then the sun that had vanished for a moment will return
Different shining more strongly as if enlarged
By the life of those who have fallen

—Nicolas Kurtovitch
translated from the French by Yzabelle Martineau

Guinea-Bissau

I mentioned that I like to have my ignorance remedied, right? Well, today is Guinea-Bissau’s Independence Day (hurrah!) and I have to admit that until today I knew nothing about the country except that it’s on the West coast of Africa. Granted, I’ve just learned that it’s one of the smallest nations in continental Africa, so I’m guessing that we don’t hear much about it on the world stage, but I didn’t even know that it was a Portuguese colony. Independence was declared on 24 September 1973, and formally recognised almost a year later, 10 September 1974. “Bissau” was added to the name to distinguish this country from the country of Guinea (previously a French territory) as Guinea-Bissau had been known as Portuguese Guinea. Why Bissau? It’s the name of the capital.

So Guinea-Bissau was part of the kingdom of Gabu, once—and the kingdom of Gabu was itself part of the Mali Empire. Even though the Portuguese first started colonising in the 16th century, parts of the Gabu kingdom survived into the 18th century—it wasn’t until the 19th century that the interior of the country was explored by Europeans. And, yes, the slave trading was roaring in this area.

The movement for independence started in 1956—both here and in Cape Verde. The African Party for the Independence of Guinea and Cape Verde had support from Cuba, China, the USSR as well as other African countries—the support included weaponry, and a guerrilla-like war ensued. It took close to twenty years, but in the end the movement won out.

Unfortunately, independence didn’t end the bloodshed. The winners slaughtered their former enemies, soldiers who fought alongside the Portuguese—thousands of them died, while some managed to escape either to Portugal or elsewhere in Africa. Many of the slaughtered were buried in unmarked mass graves.

It took until 1994 for multi-party elections to take place—and they were followed 4 years later by an army uprising, kicking the president João Bernardo Vieira out. The next elections were in 2000, and a new president (Kamba Ialá) was elected—followed, three years later by (you guessed it) a military coup. In 2005, Guinea-Bissau held elections again, two years after the coup. Ialá ran again, but Vieira (yes, the president deposed in 1998) was the winner in a runoff election.

So, the official language of the country is still Portuguese—but you know what? Apparently only 14 percent of the population speaks it.


I found this poem by Amílcar Cabral online here. http://www.vidaslusofonas.pt/amilcar_cabral_2.htm Enjoy.

Island

            - A poem by Amílcar Cabral – Praia, Cabo Verde, 1945 -
 
Mother, in your perennial sleep,
You live naked and forgotten
and barren,
thrashed by the winds,
at the sound of songs without music
sung by the waters that confine us...
 
Island:
Your hills and valleys
haven’t felt the passage of time.
They remain in your dreams
–  your children’s dreams –
crying out your woes
to the passing winds
and to the carefree birds flying by.
 
Island :
Red earth shaped like a hill that never ends
– rocky earth –
ragged cliffs blocking all horizons
while tying all our troubles to the winds!

—Amílcar Cabral
Translated by John D Godinho

Saudi Arabia

In know, I know. You think Saudi Arabia, you think oil, right? Or perhaps you think Mecca? Well, today let’s think: National Day, in recognition of the 1932 Unification of the country. But let’s also think—serious concerns over human rights. According to The Economist’s Democracy Index, the country has the ninth most authoritarian government in the world. Ouch!

Saudi Arabia is the Big Cahuna of the Arabian Peninsula—not only size-wise, but as home to not only Mecca, but also Medina. So the two holiest places in Islam are right there. Mecca, obviously, is the destination for the annual Hadj pilgrimage—and each Muslim is meant to carry out this pilgrimage at least once in their lifetime. Muhammad was born in the city—hence its importance. Medina is where Muhammad moved to, making it another important place within the Islamic faith. So, Saudi Arabia itself is inextricably linked with Islamic history.

(And, yes, pre-Islam Saudi Arabia was inhabited, and most empires traded with the states along the peninsula.)

There have been three Saudi states—the Third Saudi state was founded in the early 20th century, with borders being established in the 1920s—though not with all countries. It was only a few years ago that Saudi Arabia and Yemen settled their border disputes, and the borders with the United Arab Emirates and Oman are not really defined at all. And I can tell you’re thinking: desert! It’s a desert! Yes. Most of the country is desert. But there’s also the ‘Asir region, with mountains that get their share of green.

Saudi Arabia is an absolute monarchy—the country is ruled by the sons and grandsons of the first king of the Third Saudi State, Abd Al Aziz Al Saud.

Human rights? Well, women’s rights are severely curtailed. They can’t even drive on public roads, though driving off-road or in a private housing compound is okay. The UN Committee against Torture objects to amputations and floggings that are carried out under the Shari’a, the Islamic law. The Saudi Government answers these objections by states that Islamic law is the sole guidance it allows on human rights.

I’ve got imagine that, while I’m sure I would find it distressing in some ways (but then, that is true of much of the world), it would be a fascinating place to visit—the whole region fascinates me.

Today’s poem is by Muhammed Hasan ’Awwd—it comes from the ever-surprising and wonderful Language for a New Century.


Secret of Life and Nature

What secret lies in the winds
blowing north and south
bringing rains

What secret lies in the sea
one day calm, another day tumultuous

Chasing the full moon, and the stars
in its ebb and flow

Why does the earth revolve around the
sun, forever and ever going

Why do the stars shine at the night
and the sun at day, dazzling the eyes

Why does the eclipse of sun and moon
appear one day, and other days hides away

Why is Neptune inscrutable to us
We cannot see the stars around it?

Why are we willed to live on earth
Not choosing, and spend our lives
uncertain of the world

Why is death, like life, decreed upon us
it robs the soul of its potency and grandeur

Have philosophies, science and religion
been a minaret for people?

Did they awaken our minds from slumber?
Have we torn out the curtains of uncertainty?

Like the ancients we live our course
Then others come after us to do the same

And life, sun and stars and night and day
Revolve as ever before
Life’s secret must remain inscrutable.

—Muhammed Hasan ’Awwad
translated from the Arabic by Laith al-Husain and Alan Brownjohn
from Language for a New Century

Bulgaria

22 September, and it’s Bulgaria’s Independence Day. Also—less momentously—it’s also my birthday. I’m pleased to share my birthday with Bulgaria (and Mali) and it gives me a moment to think about my friend Carolyn who is living in Bulgaria for the next year. Bulgaria’s been around for a while—one of those country’s that has a foundation year (601). Even when countries subsequently get folded into other Empires from time to time, I’m impressed when there’s a record of a founding date, simply because it means that a country has thought of itself in terms of national identity for a long time. And the country still holds onto the traditions of the First Bulgarian Empire—the name, the language, the alphabet. Two things I associate with Bulgaria? Well, I guess the first is obvious for anyone brought up on British staples like, yes, The Wombles. Great Uncle Bulgaria. The other was when I happened to be reading around on what had been happening in Europe in the last twenty years and I read that Bulgaria was the first country, after the break-up of the USSR, to vote back a communist government.

Early on there were two Bulgarian Empires, as well as a long period of Ottoman rule. Then came the Kingdom of Bulgarian in 1878, following on from the resolution of the Russo-Turkish War. Then, prior to World War I, Bulgaria was involved in the Balkan Wars of 1912 and 1913. World War I took a toll, and Bulgaria lost territory during these conflict. Following the war, throw in a few coups and Tsar Boris’s lean towards alliance with Nazi Germany and Fascist Italy. The stage is set.

But there’s a good side here. Though Bulgaria was allied with the Axis side in World War II, the country saved its Jewish population—then around 50,000 people. Hey—that’s fantastic. The Soviets entered Bulgaria in 1944, and so I guess it’s no surprise that after the war, Bulgaria fell under Soviet influence.

Oh, and it’s one of those lovely countries on the Black Sea. Just writing the words “Black Sea” gives me a chill. In a good way.

The poem I have today is by Konstantin Pavlov—I found it online here. Enjoy it. Celebrate my birthday with me.

Capriccio for/about Goya

The old horror is already gone 

brutally absolute and brutally infinite,

no grimaces and no witticism. The horror is changing his character;—

he pats me familiarly on the shoulder,

condescendingly woos me

and toys with the idea of himself:

"We two are equally strong,

only that you're a little handsomer."

And he then smiles at me. Ah, it's this smile that makes him vile;

a pervert

and a lunatic.

And I choke with strange repulsion

as if toddlers in beards and moustache 

strewed lascivious kisses over me.


—Konstantin Pavlov
Translated from the Bulgarian by Polina Dimova

Mali

So it’s 22 September at the landlocked nation of Mali is celebrating its national day—and, yes, it is the anniversary of their 1960 independence from France. Don’t get it mixed up with Malawi—they’re in very different regions. Mali is in Western Africa, and the country goes right into the Sahara—the area that is now Mali was once part of three West African empires in control of trans-Saharan trade—the Ghana Empire, the Songhai Empire and, of course, the Mali Empire. (The trade was in gold, salt and other precious stuff… for anyone who doubts the preciousness of salt, there’s an excellent fairy tale about a daughter giving her father, the king, salt… while he doesn’t appreciate it at first, of course he at last realises the true worth of the stuff—and his daughter. It’s a Lear/Cordelia type of story.) After Europeans started establishing sea routes, the trans-Saharan trade routes sort of fell by the wayside.

And then Mali was one of the countries that ended up under French control during the Scramble for Africa—it used to be known as French Sudan. Just prior to independence, Mali and Senegal got together to become the Mali Federation in 1959. The Mali Federation gained independence from France on 20 June in 1960, but then Senegal withdrew—and of course Senegal is now an independent nation—and on 22 September Mali got to celebrate independence all over again, as—well, Mali.

So the first president—Modibo Keïta—was keen on the one-party state, socialist in its leanings. Eight years later, following economic decline (something I imagine no-one wants to think about today…) there was a military coup. Bloodless, though. That’s something. The new regime, with Moussa Traoré in control, tried to turn things around. They were hindered by a long, harsh drought—from 1968 until 1974—student agitation, as well as three attempted coups. But its not like the government—a military regime after all—was dreadfully put upon. Until the late 1980s, dissenters were repressed.

1991 saw another coup, and then in 1992 the first democratic, multi-party elections were held in the country. The two presidents that have served since then—Konaré and Touré have seen the country become one of the more stable countries in Africa.

Today’s Malian poem is by Siriman Cissoko—he actually lived in Senegal, but was born in Mali.


O Earth, from Ressac de nous-mêmes

I have laid them
my dead
in the gentleness of your loved breasts
there where the waterfalls wash the feet
of the cliffs
Keep them
o earth
keep in the folds of your clay
keep the bones of my brothers.

Often in the evening
I shall go and weep for them there
at the hour when the heart
draws arpeggios
across the koras
of dream.

And if one day the wind of liberty
came breathing after me
on your mountains and dunes
your rivers and plains
o earth
let it cradle
and rock
my brothers
heroes whose flesh was torn
and who are dead that liberty might live.

—Siriman Cissoko

Belize

21 September, Belizean independence. I didn’t know until this year that among the Central American nations there is a former British colony—and one that only gained its independence in 1981. While I realise that this is just ignorance on my part, I also think that it’s part of growing up in Australia: you tend to hear about the world’s large countries wherever you are, but, barring a major event like an invasion, you really only hear about the smaller countries from your own region. The current population estimate is just over 300,000.

Before Europeans came along, Belize was part of the territory of the Maya—the Mopan Maya were the original inhabitants, and some of the Maya still occupied the area into the 1500s. In fact, when the Spanish tried to colonise the area, they gave up after a Maya rebellion.

But then came English buccaneers. Pirates! They settled when they were seeking a sheltered place to use as a base for attaching Spanish ships. Such an illustrious group! Eventually there was an agreement drawn up where the British settlers could occupy the area and cut logwood if they’d give up piracy. The British government initially allowed settlers to establish their own government, fearing that if they acknowledged the settlement as a British colony, the Spanish would attack. It wasn’t until 1786 that the British appointed a superintendent.

While the rest of Central America separated from Spain, Belize—then known as British Honduras—stayed under British control, and was officially declared a British colony in 1862.

The official name-change to Belize came in 1973. While things were moving towards independence, Guatemala slowed down the process somewhat. Guatemala has claimed throughout Belize’s history that it has sovereignty over the region. Still, Belize got there in the end. Nonetheless, there is an ongoing border dispute between the two nations.

And the poem? This piece is by Joey García. I found it online here.


Choosing Camps

In my California school I heard tales of men,
women, children lying on the earth,
sparrow arms tucked into flannel sacks,
wagging heads lulled to slumber. I asked
my immigrant father if I, too, could bed beneath the stars,
silent as a stone
                          inhaling luminosity.

He laughed as deep and thick
as the Belizean jungle, where he had labored
as a logger for a dollar a day to surpass palmetto
hut poverty. He laughed at North Americans
with roofs and Macy's mattresses, who slept instead
on the rigid earth, pebbles caught in spines, trying
to call it vacation. He laughed at their dog noses and
damp clothing.
                          Then he painted

a galaxy on the ceiling over
my four-poster bed. Tucking me in,
he pointed out jaguar spirits and monkey gods.

          When I was sure he was asleep

                                                  I slipped away

to plunge my head into the liquid night
and pretend I was stone.

— Joey García

Malta

Before today I actually thought Malta was a single island. I was wrong. The Republic of Malta actually consists of several islands. Two—Malta Island and Gozo—are inhabited. And I also didn’t know how close it is to Sicily—under 100 kilometres. And the reason I’m finding these things out is, of course, that on 21 September Malta celebrates its Jum I-Indipendenza—or Independence Day. This Independence Day marks its 1964 separation from the United Kingdom. You may also know something about St Paul’s shipwreck in Malta (St Paul is one of the country’ patron saints). Not only is Malta’s conversion to Christianity attributed to this event. Also, St Paul was bitten by a venomous snake, but wasn’t harmed—and now the story goes that venomous snakes can’t exist on the island, as St Paul took awake their poison. Legend has it that even if a poisonous snake is brought in from the outside, the snake becomes harmless the moment it hits the Maltese shore. That’s some patron saint!

Malta has been a popular spot for a long time—the islands were initially settled around 5200 BCE by farmers. Okay, so there are lots of regions that date back at least that far. True. But Malta has the oldest free-standing structures and oldest religious structures in the world. The legend goes that it wasn’t the farmers that built these temples but giants. I am all for the giants version of events.

Lots of people wanted in on Malta—its considered to have a strategic spot, being in the middle of the Mediterranean. Greeks, Phoenicians, Carthaginians, Romans… Yes, there’s quite a roll call. Later on Malta became part of the Emirate of Sicily, which was under Arabic influence. These is were the Siculo-Arabic language that became Maltese comes from. They didn’t, unlike the English, vastly alter their language when the Normans came along. (I’m not against the opening out of English, by the way, though I do occasionally get sad that we don’t make more use of those great, guttural, Anglo-Saxon roots.)

In 1530 the Order of Knights of the Hospital of St John of Jerusalem (now there’s a title!) were given the islands in perpetual lease. The order is now known as the Knights of Malta. They stayed on until pesky Napoleon upset the order of things on his way to Egypt.

And then, when the Treaty of Paris was drawn up in 1814, Malta became part of the British Empire, and it remained under the British until its 1964 independence. At first the Queen stayed on as health of state, but then in 1974 the country became a republic. (On 13 December Malta celebrates Republic Day.) In 1979 British forces were withdrawn, and 31 March became Freedom Day.

And, yes, I have a poem for you. This is by Immanuel Mifsud, and comes from New European Poets. Another volume that expands your idea of what’s going on in poetry today.


The Twentieth of September

They stream out of the accordion like youngsters
with long curly hair down to their ankles.
And they go out into the wind on the open sea
and count the waves coming to rest at their feet.

They stream out of the accordion like pensioners,
their eyes dejected and bleary-red.
They walk and walk on the road to tomorrow.

They stream out like nameless notes.
And I’m like the one you can barely hear.

Like a note that has no wish to end.


—Immanuel Mifsud
from New European Poets
translated from the Maltese by Maurice Riordan

Armenia

So, we come to landlocked Armenia, which on 21 September celebrates its 1991 independence from the USSR. Of course, Armenians have a lot of formation and independence dates—from the tradition formation date of 11 August, 2492 BCE to the 28 May, 1918 establishment of the Democratic Republic of Armenia. There are other milestones in between—the 190 CE formation of the Kingdom of Armenia. The 301 CE establishment of the Armenian Apostolic Church. Are you getting the sense that we’re in a region with a long history? And yet, if people know one thing about Armenia it will probably be about the genocide—often termed the first genocide of the twentieth century—and the resulting diaspora. And you may remember Mt Ararat, the resting place, supposedly, of Noah’s Ark. Historically this was part of Armenia—but now it’s located in Turkey. Still, the mountain is part of the Armenian national emblem.

Armenia was the first country in the world to take on Christianity as the official state religion. These days over 93 percent of Armenian Christians belong to the Armenian Apostolic Church. But there are many religions practiced—not surprising given that there have been so many other cultures breezing through. (Not really breezing… invasion is usually a bit more, well, violent than that.

Of course, with its position between the continents of Europe and Asia, Armenia was subjected to invasions by all kinds of people—for instance, the Greeks, the Romans, Byzantines, Arabs, Mongols, Turks, Russians…

The genocide? It occurred during and just after World War I. Massacres, forced marches, deportations—often leading to the death of the deportees. This was a systematic destruction of the Armenian population of the Ottoman Empire, though Turkey—the successor to the Ottoman Empire—doesn’t accept the term genocide as an accurate depiction of the event. We don’t know how many people died—though even Turkey admits that it was hundred of thousands, while Armenia states it was one and a half million. While around 3 million Armenians live in Armenia, the Armenian diaspora population is estimated to be 8 million.

Following the Russian gain of eastern Armenia during World War I, the Bolshevik Revolution in 1917 got in the way. Eastern Armenia, Georgia and Azerbaijan tried to get together on a Trancaucasian Democratic Federative Republic, but that didn’t last. Afterwards Eastern Armenia became the Republic of Armenia. It didn’t last. Turkish nationalist forces invaded, and this resulted in the Turkish-Armenian war—just before this ended in the Treaty of Alexandropol, the Soviets invaded. The republic collapsed, and suddenly Armenia was part of an SSR.

And then, with 1991’s break up of the Soviet Union, Armenia became the first non-Baltic state to secede. While there have been questions about the fairness of previous Armenia elections—the country has been categorised as a “Semi-consolidated Authorarian Regime” by Freedom House’s recent report—this year’s election were deemed to be largely democratic by international observers.

Today’s poem is by Gevorg Emin, and it comes from Language for a New Century. (I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: this volume is amazing. I really recommend it to anyone interested in poetry—it’ll expand your view of what’s going on in world poetry.)


Small

Yes, we are small
the smallest pebble
in a field of stones.
But have you felt the hurtle
of pebbles pitched
from a mountaintop?

Small,
as the smallest mountain stream
storing rapids, currents,
unknown to wide and lazy valley rivers.

Small,
like the bullet in the bore
of the rifle;
small as the corn waiting to sprout.

Small
as the pinch of salt
that seasons the table.

Small, yes,
you have compressed us, world,
into a diamond.

Small,
you have dispersed us,
scattered us like stars.
We are everywhere in your vision.

Small,
but our borders stretch
from Piuragan telescopes to the moon,
from Lousavan back to Urartu.

Small as the grain of marvelous Uranium which
cannot be broken down, put out or consumed.


—Gevorg Emin
translated from Armenian by Diana Der-Hovanessian
from Language for a New Century

St Kitts and Nevis

The smallest nation in the Americas, St Kitts and Nevis celebrates its Independence Day on 19 September, the anniversary of the day on which, in 1983, the country gained its independence from the United Kingdom. Since the two islands are among the earliest territories colonised by Europeans, you could say that Independence had been on the books for quite a while. Among the earliest? Saint Kitts was the first British colony in the Caribbean—set up in 1624—when then, when the island was partitioned, the French also set up a colony there in 1625. Prior to these successful colonies, French Huguenot refugees tried to set up shop as far back as 1538, only to be raided by the Spanish.

Of course the Brits and the French weren’t the first people who had the idea to call St Kitts home—that notion took hold around five thousand years earlier, when Amerindian people began to arrive. It was the Kalinago people who were present when the Europeans arrived, and unlike native peoples on other islands, the Kalinago allowed the newcomers to colonise—unfortunately, the Europeans didn’t take it upon themselves to respond to this hospitality with kindness. The Kalinago people were wiped out by 1626, the year of the Kalinago Genocide. Yes. That makes me both angry and incredibly sad.

The British Kittitians began to colonise nearby Nevis in 1628, though the two were governed separately, as different states, until the 19th century. At the same time they came together, they were joined to Anguilla.

Before full independence arrived in the 1980s, St Kitts and Nevis—with Anguilla— became fully autonomous in 1967. Anguilla separated from the islands in 1971. And then there were two. It’s not all smooth sailing—historically Nevis has accused St Kitts, the larger of the two islands, of neglecting its needs, and in 1998 there was a referendum on whether Nevis would separate from St Kitts—but the yea side didn’t get the two-thirds majority it would have needed.

For a long time sugar was the major industry in the country—but only a few years ago the state-owned sugar company shut its doors. Among important contributors to the economy are the ever-popular Caribbean staples of tourism and the offshore-banking sector.

Fun fact? It’s the smallest nation to ever host a World Cup event. World Cup? Cricket of course.

I had trouble tracking down a poem for today—but what I found is, in a way, even better. Caryl Phillips is the main game in the literature of St Kitts and Nevis, and Phillips is mostly a novelist, as well as an essayist. In his collection A New World Orderhe has an essay entitled “St Kitts: 19 September 1983”—which is, of course, their day of independence. Phillips was there to witness it. So I’ve taken the opening paragraph for this page—the essay as a whole is wonderful. Go to your local library or bookshop. Trust me.


from A New World Order

It is only in the hour-long wait in Antigua, having left the British Airways 747 and watched it soar dramatically away towards Barbados, that I realize I am once again in the Caribbean. In England an hour could never last so long. The heat, and the noise, and the lethargy-inducing humidity, seduce from my body the equivalent of a whole London summer’s sweat. And then mercifully the small Avro plane makes its scheduled appearance, and the forty-eight passengers rush (the plane is over-booked) headlong through the gate and on to the tarmac. As if participating in a second, a voluntary and more comfortable middle passage, the voyagers are all in a hurry to witness what has become for Britain a regular part of her year’s foreign diplomacy. However, for these passengers this will be a unique and emotional moment in their lifetime. This will be something to relate to their children and to their grandchildren thereafter: independence. St Kitts, the mother colony of the British Empire, together with her sister island, Nevis, will soon become the last of Britain’s associated states to achieve full political independence. St Kitts-Nevis, with a combined population of 45,000, will soon take her place as both the newest, and the smallest, country in the world.


—Caryl Phillips

Chile

A friend of mine was in Chile earlier this year, and while there he went to a bar that is in what I believe used to be Pablo Neruda’s house. While he was there he admired a stuffed penguin they had behind the bar. Completely unrelated to the Independence Day Project I’ve had a few opportunities to work with penguins, so I was excited—though also sad, since it was stuffed—to hear about this penguin. Now, along with the Atacama Desert, it’s going to be one of the first things that always comes to mind when I think of Chile. The Atacama Desert? Why yes. I’m in love with deserts, and after the deserts (or dry valleys) of Antarctica, the Atacama is the driest desert on earth. I’m not the only one impressed—NASA uses the desert to test instruments for future Mars missions.

But this is not just about penguins and the Atacama. It’s about Chilean independence, though the date is a little strange. In 1808 the Spanish throne was usurped by Napoleon’s brother (as in Bonaparte) and this was not a popular move in Chile. On 18 September 1810 Chileans formed a national junta in Ferdinand’s name (the heir of the deposed king) and proclaimed Chile a self-governing republic in the Spanish monarchy. Soon the autonomy thing caught on, and full independence followed in 1818.

The twentieth century wasn’t very kind to Chile—prior to Pinochet’s rule there were still military coups and unstable governments. Which isn’t at all to say the whole century was a mess—there were long periods when democracy worked. The dark cloud we now remember is Pinochet, whose regime engaged in serious human rights abuses. Tens of thousands were tortured, and around 30,000 fled the country. There were thousands killed.

I know that you’re waiting for a poem by Neruda, but I decided to go with another poet—I used Neruda for Easter Island not long ago, and every so often I like to switch it up, so to speak. So today’s poem is by Nicanor Parra, and comes from The Vintage Book of Contemporary World Poetry.


The Pilgrim

Your attention, ladies and gentleman, your attention for one
      moment:
Turn your heads for a second to this part of the republic.
Forget for one night your personal affairs,
Pleasure and pain can wait at the door:
There’s a voice from this part of the republic.
Your attention, ladies and gentlemen! You attention for one
      moment!
A soul that has been bottled up for years
In a sort of sexual and intellectual abyss,
Nourishing itself most inadequately through the nose,
Desires to be heard.
I’d like to find out some things,
I need a little light, the garden’s covered with flies,
My mental state’s a disaster,
I work things out in my particular way,
As I say these things I see bicycle leaning against a wall,
I see a bridge
And a car disappearing between the buildings.

You comb your hair, that’s true, you walk in the gardens,
Under your skins you have other skins,
You have a seventh sense
Which lets you in and out automatically.
But I’m a child calling to its mother from behind rocks,
I’m a pilgrim who makes stones jump as high as his nose,
A tree crying out to be covered with leaves.

—Nicanor Parra
from The Vintage Book of Contemporary World Poetry
translated from the Spanish by W. S. Merwin

Papua New Guinea

16 September is Papua New Guinea’s Independence Day. The largest section of the country is the eastern half of the island New Guinea (the western part consists of the Indonesian provinces Papua and West Papua) and there are also a lot of islands that belong to the nation. Prior to independence, Papua New Guinea was self-governing for two years before, in 1975, gaining full independence from Australia. I have a few friends who have lived in Papua New Guinea and tell me it is incredibly beautiful—I’m hungry to go there myself. There are hundreds of indigenous languages—over 800 actually, more than any other countries—and traditional societies. It’s a corner of the world that hasn’t been explored as much as—well, most other areas of the world. I’m torn between wanting to leave it that way, and wanting to know more. As well as having an urge to visit it myself. Maybe it’s all the volcanoes—eruptions are frequent, and volcanic activity fascinates me.

You think of it as a small island, don’t you? Well, it’s really not that small—the country is bigger than California.

It looks like other people have been happy with Papua New Guinea—for about 50,000 years. Oh, and I’m thrilled to read that Papua New Guineans developed agriculture independently, domesticating plants thousands of years ago. Subsequent developments? Around 500 BCE there was a migration of Austronesian peoples to the coast of New Guinea, and they brought the winning combination of pottery, pigs and new fishing techniques. More recently, after Europeans had been kicking around the region for a while, the sweet potato arrived, pretty well replacing taro as the staple.

Papua New Guinea is a member of the commonwealth—that means that, yes, Queen Elizabeth II of the United Kingdom is still the official head of state, and she is represented on the ground by the Governor-General. Of course, the real power is in the hands of the Prime Minister.

People of course know that Australia is blessed with a veritable menagerie of marsupials—Papua New Guinea also has a lot of marsupials, closely related to Australian species. Do yourself a favour—look at tree kangaroos. They are wonderful.

Today’s Papua New Guinean poem is by Loujaya Kouza and comes from Nuanua: Pacific Writing in English Since 1980.


The Expatriate

He was what folks called
an expat-ri-ate
And when he came to visit
chose to sit on Mother’s mat
And called it ex-qui-site.

He didn’t eat taro, fish or rice
Just sat and said
“The food looks nice.”

He refused every drop
of what we gave him to drink
He doesn’t take water
I solemnly think.

Until at last it was time to go
he bowed and said Thank you
for so and so.

Mother quietly whispered and said
‘He didn’t touch a thing I cooked
nor take a drop to drink
There’s something awful queer
about these expat-ri-ates
I think.’

—Loujaya Kouza
from Nuanua: Pacific Writing in English Since 1980

Mexico

I feel we all carry ideas of Mexico—and I think a lot of people forget just how large a country Mexico is. Fourteenth largest in the world. I mean, besides early memories of making tacos at home, when I think of Mexico I think of the Aztecs. I think of 90210 and the Mexican Standoff with Brenda and Dylan versus Jim Walsh. I think of Frida Kahlo. I think—yes, I’m ashamed—of sombreros. I think of cacti. See? Every word I write I’m either revealing my ignorance or reinforcing the ideas you already have. Well, except maybe the 90210 thing. Let’s celebrate Mexico a little, though—on 16 September 1810 Mexico declared its independence from Spain. It took Spain just over 11 years to recognise this independence, but hey—it’s better late than never, right? Independence Day! Before the recognition arrived, they had to fight the Mexican War of Independence.

For two years, Mexico was part of the First Mexican Empire—which was huge. It stretched down to Costa Rica, and into parts of what are now the states of Wyoming and Colorado in the United States. The emperor was deposed after two years, and the other Central American countries left the empire. There was a Second Mexican Empire in the mid-nineteenth century—also shortlived.

There are mountain ranges in Mexico—and, yes, there’s snowfall if you’re in the right place. And then there are deserts—the Altar desert in Sonora looks amazing. And we know about Baja, because that’s where Brenda and Dylan went on that ill-fated trip when Brenda forgot her passport. Mexico is also megadiverse: it has the world’s greatest biodiversity in reptiles (now that’s a claim to fame…) and second in mammals. I think that’s pretty amazing. I’m sure birders prefer to head down to Costa Rica and Panama, but as I prefer mammals and plants (and I don’t mind reptiles, with guidance) I think Mexico and I would get along wonderfully. And I loved Costa Rica and Panama.

The indigenous people of Mexico were lucky enough to have access to chocolate for years before the rest of the world came to experience chocolate-induced euphoria. Not to mention tacos, quesadillas, enchiladas, burritos… I love Mexican food. There’s something about frijoles that makes me oh-so-happy.

Mexico also has a Octavio Paz. As in, poet, Nobel Prize winner for literature, and diplomat. Just in case you don’t believe me when I saw that he’s amazing, here’s a poem to prove it.

Return

You spread out beneath my eyes,
a land of dunes—ocher, bright.
The wind in search of water stopped,
a land of heartbeats and fountains.
Vast as the night you fit
in the hollow of my hand.

Later, the motionless hurling down,
within and without ourselves
With my eyes I ate darkness,
drank the water of time, I drank night.
Then I touched the body of a music
heard with the tips of my fingers.

Dark boats, together,
moored in the shadows,
our bodies reclined.
Our souls, unlashed,
lamps afloat
in the water of night.

In the end you opened your eyes,
You saw yourself seen by my eyes,
and from my eyes you saw yourself:
falling like a fruit on the grass,
like a stone in the pond,
you fell into yourself.

A tide rose within me,
with a weightless fist I beat
at the door of your lids:
my death wanted to meet you,
my death wanted to meet itself.
I was buried in your eyes.

Our bodies flow through the plains
of night: they are time wearing itself out.
a presence that dissolves in a caress;
yet they are infinite, to touch them
is to bathe in rivers of heartbeats
and return to the perpetual beginning anew.

—Octavio Paz
from Modern Literature of the Non-Western World
translated from the Spanish by Eliot Weinberger

Costa Rica

The smallest of a bumper crop of Central American nations that gained their independence on 15 September, 1821, when they broke away from Spain to subsequently join first the Mexican Empire and then the Federal Republic of Central America before becoming an independent nation, the Costa Rica we know and love today. If you’ve been following my posts over the year, or checking my other blog, you’ll know that I spent a few weeks in Costa Rica a few months ago. I loved it. Which is not to play favourites—I’ve loved every country I’ve been to, and I want to go to every country I haven’t been to.

Now, Costa Rica is a hub of eco-tourism these days (and we know that anything with the prefix “eco-” is hot, right?) so I’m pleased to note that its improved its position on the Environmental Performance Index from number 15 in 2006 to number 5 this year. And Costa Rica’s government is serious about this environmental thing—they want to be the first country to become carbon neutral by 2021. I know that eco-tourism is where their bread it buttered, so to speak (rice and beans are the very yummy staples in this region of the world), and so it makes sense to make these moves, but I’m just excited to see how serious they are about it.

When I was in Costa Rica I had one adventure on what turned out to be a very long day—though they’re exhausting, and I certainly couldn’t have them everyday, these are my favourite things about travelling. While Costa Rica doesn’t have the spectacular pre-Columbian sites of some other places in Latin America, it shouldn’t be scoffed at. (I’m from Australia. Most ruins impress me.) I thought I’d go to Costa Rica’s largest archaeological site at Guayabo—a few different buses, with some serious waiting in between, and a long walk uphill because I foolishly got off the bus early. Now, while there’s a lot that we don’t know about this site, it looks like it was inhabited from around 1000 BCE, and then abandoned in 1400 CE. At its peak it had about 10,000 people living there. And—there is an aqueduct that still works. Given the plumbing I’ve encountered in all sorts of places, this impresses me no end. To complete the tale of my adventure, I will tell you that it started raining, heavily, just as I was leaving. I had an umbrella that—fell apart. And I thought, yes, there’ll be somewhere I can sit and drink coffee and read for three hours while waiting for the bus—except there wasn’t. Apparently no-one actually goes to Guayabo—and if they do, they don’t go mid-week in the off-season. Fine. Eventually I found a lady who ran a kind of general store from her house, and bought some corn chips. She was amazing—she asked me in, made me coffee, offered me lunch. She spoke no English, and my Spanish is—well, rudimentary is putting it mildly. I learned a decent amount—to get directions—and hoped that I would be able to use my Italian to communicate. So, we spoke in fits of understanding followed by misunderstanding, as she showed me pictures of her family, introduced me to her dog, and—oddly—watched cartoons. When I have these days that are in the middle of nowhere, when I don’t meet a single other tourist, I feel like I’ve had some sort of experience that I will cherish. And because this was so positive—this lovely lady opened her home to me—I will always remember Costa Rica as a beautiful place. Not just an eco-tourism wonderland of turtles and jaguars (not to mention the fact that I saw my first active volcano erupting in Costa Rica, and swam in volcanic hot springs for the first time there) being two buses and three hours from the capital, sitting in this house drinking coffee, and trying to talk as best I could with this amazingly kind stranger. And since this was a narrative of the kindness of strangers, I guess you can just call me Blanch DuBois.

Do read up on Costa Rica. And in the mean time, read a Costa Rican poet. This poem is by Jorge Debravo. I found it online here.

The Lovers

They are impressive, fortunate, made of moon, in
the middle of the night.
They burn like timber. They exude fresh and
delicious water, like the sap of large trees.

They don’t seem to come from terrestrial rocks: we
imagine them sprouting from caves more savage and
deep. Or rising perhaps from an oceanic pit
where from sirens they have learned the art of embracing
until arms achieve the transformation into snakes.

If they had names like us, we would not
believe them to be human. We would think of them as inhabitants of
stars unknown, from planets of wheat.

Among shadows they mingle, sometimes, with the
gods. They slip and are frightened like animals, which is
another way of appearing like gods.

They don’t dare use the word: they moan and coo. The
shortest words on the earth and more words,
nevertheless.

When I return home I will ask Death not to
come for them. Beautiful it would be for them to be free for
ever and for them to emerge out into the streets joined, like
prophets of a powerful and vegetative ritual.

We would sing them songs of joy and we
would dress them with garlands of fresh leaves. Large garlands
that would comfort them when they find themselves
without pillows in some bitter place upon the
earth.


—Jorge Debravo
translated from the Spanish by Oscar Fernández

Nicaragua

Even though I’m really too young to remember it—and was born in the wrong part of the world for it to have made a huge impact—somehow the name “Nicaragua” still automatically conjures the words “Sandanistas” and “Contras.” Though that’s over, it’s still the first thing that comes to a lot of people’s minds—such that, when I was considering getting to Nicaragua earlier this year when I was already spending time in Panama and Costa Rica, I checked a Lonely Planet guide that immediately said: yes, it’s safe to go there now. Also, I called my mum and said I was interested, and she too had the pause. It’s a natural reaction, I guess: people think of the last time the country penetrated the awareness of people all over the world. But today I don’t want to dwell on that so much as wish Nicaraguan’s everywhere a happy Independence Day. Yes, it’s a bumper day, as all of Central America broke away from Spain at the same time as the Captaincy General of Guatemala before other manifestations of Central America gave way to the current nations we are familiar with today.

Browsing as I do when I write these entries, I’ve just found a photograph of 6000 year old footprints that have been preserved in volcanic mud—yes, they’re human. I always knew I loved volcanoes—but seeing preserved footprints makes me love volcanoes even more. Nicaragua has been home to humans for at least six thousand years, and we’re familiar with the arrival of the Spanish in the early 16th century. Yes, the indigenous population was devastated by their battles with the Spaniards.

After independence from Spain, Nicaragua did the same as its neighbours and first became part of the Mexican Empire, and then joined the Federal Republic of Central America, before becoming a completely independent republic in 1838. There was a region of the Mosquito Coast on the Caribbean that the United Kingdom still claimed, and eventually this was annexed to Nicaragua, creating the area that makes up the country today. Oh, and early in their independent nationhood Nicaragua was visited by one William Walker from the US, who set himself up as president—and was quickly driven out. I guess an interloper can help foster a sense of nationhood.

We all know about the Panama Canal (I am in love with the Panama Canal) but not as many people know that before the Panama Canal came into being, there had been proposals floating around for years for the Nicaraguan Canal—and, in fact, they are still around. In the past few years the government has brought the idea back, wanting to create the canal, and make it larger than the Panama Canal (that is, wider) to handle the ships that are “Post-Panamax” in size.

Canals aside, Nicaragua has had a problem with military dictatorships over the years—even before the Nicaraguan Revolution turned things upside down. And then came the 1980s. Iran-Contra scandal anyone?

Like neighbouring Costa Rica, Nicaragua is an excellent place to go if you like turtles. They come ashore at the same time and at the same place each year to lay their eggs. Turtles are amazing.

Today’s Nicaraguan poem is by Ernesto Cardenal. Once again I thank the Anthology of Contemporary Latin American Literature 1960-1984.


Epitaph for the Tomb of Adolfo Baez Bone

They killed you and they did not tell us where they buried your body,
but since then all of the national territory is your
                              grave;
or rather: in each palm of the national territory where your body
                              is not found, you were re-born.
They believed they were killed you with an order of “Fire!”
they believed they were burying you
and what they were doing was burying a seed.

—Ernesto Cardenal
translated by Wayne H Finke
from Anthology of Contemporary Latin American Literature 1960-1984

El Salvador

Yes, another of the Guatemalan Kingdom—15 September 1821, independence from Spain. Nationhood? 1838, when the Federal Republic of Central America dissolved, though El Salvador was one of the nations that attended to restore the Union in 1842. The restoration didn’t happen at that time, nor were the subsequent attempts to re-establish the federation successful. El Salvador was also part of the Greater Republic of Central America along with Honduras and Nicaragua, which formed in 1895, but this too fell apart after only a few years, in 1898. Another significant day that Salvadorans celebrate each year since 1992 is January 16—Peace Accords Day.

I’m guessing that most people know primarily know about El Salvador in relation to the Salvadoran Civil War that, after political unrest and insurgencies in the 1970s, ran from 1980 until 1992. Prior to the start of the war, there were fraudulent elections and poor living conditions for most of the population. With the government responding to large demonstrations complaining about these things with the suspension of constitutional rights and unleashing violence of civilians, it became clear that things would turn ugly. The Catholic church denounced government violence—and I’m so glad that the church did denounce the government—but this contributed to the most infamous assassination performed by the Salvadoran death squads when the Catholic Archbishop Óscar Romero was shot during mass in 1980. Archbishop Romero is revered as a national hero.

Following a coup d’état in 1979 and the death squads’ assassinations, the civil war grew until a 1986 earthquake helped things settle down—for a while. I wish I had the space to write more about the civil war as a whole—but I hope you will take the time to learn some more about it. During this timeout the Human Rights Commission of El Salvador published a report, outlining the use of forty types of torture used on political prisoners.

Amnesty International’s report in 1985 stated that many of the 40,000 people killed in the civil war until that time had been killed by government forces. In addition to the huge number killed by the end of the war, more than 25 percent of the population was displaced—there are still large El Salvadoran refugee communities all over the place.

The trials of El Salvador aren’t over—unfortunately there are high crime rates, including on the highest murder rates in the world. It’s considered to be at the center of the gang crisis. While in the last year and a half the homicide rate has dropped, it’s still the highest in Central America.

Today’s Salvadoran poem is by Roque Dalton—it is titled “Poet in Jail.” It comes from the Anthology of Contemporary Latin American Literature 1960-1984.


Poet in Jail

I did not want to think about destiny. For some reason
I associate it with forgotten tapestries of shame and majesty
where an impassive face
(like that of Selassie)
struggled to impose upon itself an eternal mark. Only the air,
absurd from cold in this my frying-pan country, applauds
till it reaches the heart in this hour. Oh, assault!
Oh, words that I shall no longer pronounce the same!
sit of commissions for returning grandfathers.

This morning the guard brought only scraps
for me—the poor man has not suffered—
scraps which, with the fog, have given meaning to the day.
They are dead pieces of salt of some dead shellfish,

corn tortillas attacked with that fury
without more warm places to annoy,
remains of wild rice like three haughty standard-bearers
occupied in sparing lives of lambs and crude logics.

The wall is full of dates that I bear sinking,
Pieces of the final fatigue, bare fatigue, that cry and are
the worst witnesses of something that not even my tears would erase.


—Roque Dalton
translated by Wayne H Finke
from Anthology of Contemporary Latin American Literature 1960-1984

Honduras

Like much of Central America, Honduras celebrates its Independence Day on 15 September, in celebration of the 1821 separation of Guatemala from Spain: Honduras was, in the colonial days, part of the Guatemala Captaincy General. On gaining independence from Spain the larger Guatemala joined up with the Mexican empire, going through another round of independence in 1823 when that dissolved and Honduras was part of the Federal Republic of Central America. A few years later, in 1838, the Federal Republic also disintegrated, and Honduras, like other member states, became an independent nation.

Mayans did get down to Honduras—the western region, near its border with present-day Guatemala. Following the decline of the Mayan civilisation, the Lencas were the main indigenous group living in that region of Honduras. But it’s not like the west was the only region that anyone lived in—there’s plenty of evidence of other pre-Columbian cultures here, as pretty much anywhere in Central America. But we know Columbus showed up, and it became a post-Columbian world.

After Honduras became its own nation who do you think moved in? Yes, that’s right—US fruit companies. Hey—it’s a great place to grow bananas, and it was the original Banana Republic. Now that’s largely used pejoratively, but at the time the term was coined I assumed it was more about acknowledging the influence these fruit companies had economically and politically than being solely a dismissal. These days, economically it’s a tough picture—Honduras is one of the 10 poorest countries in the Western Hemisphere.

Wars? Well, first there was the Football War with El Salvador, also know as the Soccer War. (For anyone interest, Kapuscinski’s book, The Soccer War, includes a wonderful essay on this. And you should read Kapuscinski anyway. You’ll learn a lot.) This war lasted five days—and is sometimes called the 100 Hours War. Yes, there was rioting at a football match between the two countries, but it wasn’t caused by the game. There were actually broader issues like land reform and immigration.

My family, for better or worse, used to refer to Central America as “Ronald Reagan’s playground,” because of America’s involvement in the region during the 1980s. In the 1980s, Honduras received a lot of aid from the US, economically and militarily. The payoff? Well, Honduras became a base for 15,000 Nicaraguan Contras, and joined the US military in joint maneuvers. The Honduran army’s Battalion 316 members received training from the US through the CIA and military bases. Which became problematic when this unit carried out political assassinations and torture of those suspected of opposing the government. Subsequently investigations and hearings have occurred, and many people have reported that Negroponte, in the early 1980s a diplomat in Honduras, “routinely ignored troubling evidence about the Honduran government” regarding the human rights abuses going on at the time.

Honduras did away with the death penalty before Australia. The last person to be executed was in 1940. But I shouldn’t speak to soon—the current president is reportedly keen on bring capital punishment back. I’m not a big fan of that idea.

Today’s Honduran poem is by Roberto Sosa—it comes from his book The Common Grief: Selected Poems.


Time

To Eduardo Bähr and Víctor Meza

Life moves on and drops its rotten apple.

Time turns and all creation changes. Beasts

will turn to foam and jails to kindergartens.

Gold, its infinity, or the hate of man for man

will be by the end of this affair

mere paper birds.

Meanwhile our great day doesn’t dawn.

We live like those

whose hands are in the fire

who know Time

as a noose around the neck.

Trees burst into tears for fellow trees.

I'’m moving on. Before long

so will you.



—Roberto Sosa
translated from the Spanish by JoAnne Engelbert
from The Common Grief: Selected Poems

Guatemala

1821. Guatemala gains its independence from Spain. Let’s celebrate!

Know anyone who’s been to Guatemala? I’m sure that they checked out the spectacular Mayan sites scattered around the country—the Mayan civilisation lasted until around 900 CE. We still don’t know why this culture collapsed—a current theory is drought. Though the Mayan kingdom collapsed, subsequent regional kingdoms still retained aspects of Mayan culture.

In terms of European forays—they started in 1518. The region—called Guatemala by the Spanish—was a Captaincy General during its colonial time. One of the early products that Spain got out of the region (which was much larger back in the day) as red dye from cochineal insects. Amazing! I always think of cochineal red as coming from Chile—which still is, I believe, the biggest producer of this pigment—but I love that Guatemala contributed to the great paintings of the world as well.

After its independence, Guatemala was briefly integrated into the Mexican empire—but that ceased existence only a few years later.

More recently, we know that Central America was a pretty contentious place in the latter part of the twentieth century. Civil war started in 1960, and stretched on through several changes of leader until 1996. Guerilla groups entering from outside the country, and forming inside the country were part of the 1970s and 1980s—and not surprisingly, the presence of these groups led to both urban and rural guerrilla warfare.

The government took part in some pretty horrific acts—the 1992 Nobel Peace Prize went to Rigoberta Menchú, who worked to bring international attention to the atrocities of the Guatemalan Civil War. In 1996 the United Nations negotiated a peace accord, finally bringing the war to an end. The UN-sponsored Truth Commission asserted that the state had engaged in genocide against particular ethnic groups during the period of the civil war—and then US president Bill Clinton stated that the US had been wrong to provide support for the Guatemalan military forces who participated in this genocide.

Of course, as a result of ongoing war there is number of Guatemalans living outside the state. It looks like at least half a million are displaced—but the full numbers still aren’t known, more than 10 years after the Peace Accord was signed.

A significant portion of the population is indigenous, and at there are twenty-one distinct Mayan languages still spoken, as well as many non-Mayan indigenous languages. Hearing that languages live on always makes me happy. Spanish is the official language, but there are definitely segments of the population that don’t speak Spanish, even as a secondary language.

Today’s Guatemalan poem is by David Unger, who translated the poem himself. It comes from the Anthology of Contemporary Latin American Literature 1960-1984. Please enjoy!

Insomnia

Yes, I finally understand why
Mayan priests plucked out
still blossoming hearts:
“Now that I’ve known you
I can never live alone again.”
A threat? Perhaps,
but more likely a confession
with thousands of aftershocks
that leave me jumpy,
a cut so deep
mere sleep becomes a chore.

I’ve given up
on permanence, rather believe
we’ll pass the passing years
with slight betrayals
that, complemented by inflation,
leave holes in our pockets,
a residue of Kleenex and lint.
But we’re past the penny-ante stage
and, despite doubts,
we’ve staked our hearts,
this spare change.


—David Unger
translated from the Spanish by the author
from Anthology of Contemporary Latin American Literature 1960-1984

Gibraltar

Gibraltar and the Gibraltarians. I am sometimes surprised to realise that this is still a British territory. I come across it from time to time—but usually in 19th century literature. In particular, a certain plot in Maria Edgeworth’s Harrington revolved around the behaviour of a particular character while he was with his regiment in Gibraltar. Let’s take a tour as Gibraltarians are celebrating their national day (as a territory). You probably think more about the Strait of Gibraltar than the place, right? It’s named for a formation known as the Rock of Gibraltar—and you know what that means? “The Rock” is not just the name of a bad film, but also a nickname for this home to nearly 30,000 people. It’s also known as Gib, but I don’t feel I know it well enough to be on such casual terms. So, the British in Gibraltar? Since the 1713 Treaty of Utrecht. 10 September is Gibraltar’s National Day—this commemorates the 1967 referendum with which Gibraltarians resoundingly rejected Spanish sovereignty.

Historically? Well, despite evidence going back to Neanderthals, what we really know starts with the Phoenicians who settled there about 3000 years ago. They were followed by Carthaginians and Romans, followed by the Vandals, before being handed to the Visigothic Kingdom of Hispania, and then collapsing under the Muslim Conquest. And this only takes us to 711 CE. That’s one popular rock.

Obviously anytime Spain and Britain were on opposing sides of a conflict, things got a little tense in Gibraltar—for instance, Spain got into the action of the American Revolution against Britain. This led to the “Great Siege of Gibraltar”—over three years of blockages until peace agreements began to be drawn up.

More recently, since the construction of the Suez Canal, Gibraltar’s strategic importance has increased—such that, for instance, in World War II the population was evacuated while the territory became a fortress.

When Spain was under Franco’s rule, Spain tried to press for sovereignty over Gibraltar. This led to a referendum for Gibraltarians. It’s another of those referendums whose results fascinate me: 12,138 votes in favour of retaining British sovereignty and a mere 44 leaning toward Spain. In 1969 the territory became autonomous.

Some people may remember Gibraltar’s biggest world headline in the last few decades when, in 1988, the British Special Air Service killed three members of the IRA who were there to plant a car bomb. Eventually the European Court of Human Rights determined this action violated the European Convention of Human Rights, though it also ruled that the slain IRA members were engaged in terrorism, so their families could not claim damages.

In the last few years Britain and Spain have been able to come to agreement over a number of longstanding bones of contention, and the British Government asserts that it “will never enter into arrangements under which the people of Gibraltar would pass under the sovereignty of another state against their freely and democratically expressed wishes.” Good for them.

Oh! And the only wild monkeys in Europe are found on The Rock—Barbary Macaques, to be exact. There are about 230 of them, and they’re gorgeous.

When I was hunting for a poem I found this piece—I know only that it was written by a World War II evacuee, examining their nostalgia for The Rock. I found it online here.

‘’Mid pleasures and places
Though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble,
There’s no place like home.’

‘Peñoncito querido
lejano Gibraltar,
el corazon herida
por ti se va a quebrar.
Que intacto Dios te guarde
para a ti regresar;
aunque volvamos tarde,
te amamos sin cesar.’

‘Gibraltar streets are silent
All gone those little feet
But their high-heeled tinkling clatter
On my heart shall ever beat,
As I stood at my embrasure
I hear those little feet.’