Independence Day Project

...returning to your usual programming...

2009-10-23T12:45:00.001-07:00

At the end of last year I got suddenly overwhelmed by the sorts of things that overwhelm a girl at the end of the year. At the same time, this project fell by the wayside - something I did not intend to happen. I hate to leave projects unfinished. So, in November, a year late, I'll be picking up where I left off. Next year I hope to spend some time ironing out the problems from the original postings. Much as I would love to make this into a physical anthology, I expect this project might remain simply an electronic labour of love - though I expect I will write elsewhere about the process, and about things I have learned.

So, I apologise for a nearly year-long silence. The noise will be turned down again now for another month, but from then until the end of January we will round out the calendar and the globe, and give everyone their day in the sun.

Oman

2008-11-18T13:22:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Steps

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

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

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

Morocco

2008-11-18T12:59:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The exiled

To Abbas


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

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

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

The West Bank and Gaza

2008-11-15T12:10:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

A needle and angels

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

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

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

Saint-Martin and Sint Maarten

2008-11-13T13:17:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

worker island


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

—Lasana M. Sekou

Angola

2008-11-13T12:11:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Poem of Return

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

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

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

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

—Jofre Rocha

Poland

2008-11-13T11:06:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Elegy of Fortinbras


for C. M.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cambodia

2008-11-09T20:21:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some of your clothes are probably made in Cambodia.

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

The Fall of Culture

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tonga

2008-11-04T10:41:00.000-08:00

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

Some things about Tonga:

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

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

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

To the Last Viking of the Sunrise

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dominica

2008-11-03T07:00:00.001-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

from Mayhem and Romance in a Cropduster Fuselage


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

—Laurence Lieberman
from The Creole Mephistopheles

Federated States of Micronesia

2008-11-03T07:00:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love Stick

A very fine piece of tangantangan
 Carved with tender care
 Way better then Cupid's arrow 
Or the Roman spear.

Precious in a way
 It stands as a symbol
Like a birth name
 For a certain individual.

It defines love, to those who know its mark.
 It denies love, to those who don't own it. 
Yes, it is a tool for amorous communication 
And no, it is not a weapon of mass destruction.

Lucky for those who can feel its unique arts, 
For they will invite their lovers. 
Tangantangan is not just a stick 
It's a fine piece of Chuukese carving for girls to pick
 And take delight in.

—Engelbert Danis

Antigua and Barbuda

2008-11-01T10:17:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

from In History

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

Should I call it history?

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

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

Why should I be obsessed with all these questions?

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

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

US Virgin Islands

2008-11-01T09:39:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

Charcoal
   
I  

black man bent under
 tropic sun
 burning lignum vitae
 for charcoal
 to boil morning tea.  

black woman's hands  
carry coal
 for Rotterdam's steam
 a cent a bucket buys
 little sugar
 her cracked yellow feet
 mark the earth
 step by step  
under Danish flag. 

 Millions of years ago
 in another tropical forest
 trees, flowers, plants
 absorbed sun 
day after day
 then sank into earth's bosom
 metamorphosed to coal.

  The Dannebrog lowers a past  
“We must progress” captions  
the coal carrier's dreams of
 golden roads and electric light.
 Blackbeard's pieces of eight
 pay for Old Glory.

  II

  But those were old photographs  
viewed in a wrinkled olive book
 The Danish Isles of the West.
 Now kodak snaps the Red  
White and Blue cooly
 waving over tin shacks  
sweltering in blistering sun
 for bargain hunter’s
 trade magazine.

  While in the dark  
a spector’ scream
 of freedom's flight
 Queen Mary, the one-legged  
slave jumped to her death
 on the jagged rocks of the sea 

 The stories chant,  
“Look to the water!”
 reminding us of her yearly  
apparition and a bloody sea

  And we weep to the drums
 that beat somewhere else
 to marching rats and fighting roaches
 while old man tends his coal pot
 and Lennox Avenue screams identity.

—Patricia M. Fagan

Turkey

2008-10-29T07:00:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Angina Pectoris


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

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

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

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

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

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

Czech Republic

2008-10-28T14:09:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everyday Occurrence

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

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

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

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

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

Saint Vincent and the Grenadines

2008-10-27T07:00:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Soufrière

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

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

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

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

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

Thirty grains of sulphur
panicked off the phone
when it rang

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

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

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

Someone who lives
inside a microphone
kept things in order

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

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

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

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

Turkmenistan

2008-10-27T07:00:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

The Eastern Poem

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Austria

2008-10-26T07:00:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

Aria I

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

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

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

Zambia

2008-10-24T07:00:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shikaumbu at the Battle of Isanvu


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

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

Hungary

2008-10-23T07:00:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Hole

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

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

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

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

in the point something throbbed,

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

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

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

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

Netherlands Antilles

2008-10-21T07:00:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Niue

2008-10-19T07:00:00.000-07:00

I’m guessing Niue is place most of us don’t think about often. A small (population is under 2000) island in free association with New Zealand, closest to Tonga, Samoa and the Cook Islands. Think about it now.

While this year Constitution Day celebrations are happening on 16 and 17 October, I’m writing this to mark the anniversary of the new constitution.

Okay. So people arrived in Niue from Samoa around 900 CE. About six hundred years later more settlers came from Tonga. So far, strictly Polynesian. During this time—until the early 1700s—there wasn’t really a national government. Chiefs and heads of families controlled things. But since there was influence from both Samoa and Tonga established, kingship was introduced into the mix. The first king of Niue was Puni-mata.

Contact with the wider world? Well, this is Oceania, and so James Cook can be credited with the first European sighting of Niue. He tried to land there—three times—but the Niueans refused him. Oh, and Cook called the island “Savage Island,” the name that stuck until relatively recently when the original name Niue became known on the world stage.

Now this is Oceania, so where discoverers… discovered… it is inevitable that sometime soon after missionaries much follow. Yes, the London Missionary Society agrees with me, and some missionaries showed up in Niue in 1846. And, yes, after a few years Christianity had spread. Way to proselytise.

And where did the British empire come in? King Fata-a-iki, who reigned from 1887 to 1896, was worried about the colonising spirit of the times, and offered sovereignty to the British in 1887, judging them more benevolent than many other colonial powers. It took till 1900, but soon the island was a British protectorate—for a year. In 1901 New Zealand annexed the island. And then 1974 saw self-government.

Something you probably didn’t know? Niue is one of the world’s largest coral islands. Also—weird fact—apparently the soil in Niue is really unusual, geochemically speaking. The soil has a “surprisingly high” level of natural radioactivity—no uranium, but some other radionucleides. Now apparently this kind of distribution happens on very deep seabeds and the theory goes that a combination of extreme weathering of the coral and a short-lived submergence in the sea 120,000 years ago caused this. That’s so interesting. Oh, and there’s been no evidence of ill-effects health-wise in the local population.

Today’s poem is actually a segment of a longer work by John Pule, who is considered to be Niue’s most important writer and artist. It comes from Nuanua: Pacific Writing in English Since 1980.

from The Shark that Ate the Sun

Earth. Time’s curfew desires only our attention
the landscape mirrors another reflection of
the other sorrow known on earth as life

the ocean is left behind as we walk to a dream
war is not known on earth but in the isolated
image human beings once ran naked in caves
carved out a history of a new birth
embellishing art to become blood and beauty
when mysteries poked at our brain, leaving holes,
and we dropped whatever we had in our hearts to
look at each other in amazement, and whoever possessed
the desire to live forever will never die, but we die, and suffer,
and the shock has long been forgotten
because the word death is only a gossip

and not when we carelessly describe to our
children how we love on earth, which ceases to
fascinate, and falls about our bodies like confetti

and standing naked to surmise a tranquil field
a city appeared to haunt the waterhole where
animals browse and drink. Years later
the remains of that lone figure are dug up
the position odd, the hands covered the eyes as if to
hide from some horrific vision, maybe a
revelation of what was seen is what we now live in
did the vision kill whatever his name and tribe is
staring out over the tranquil field?

the question glittered as centuries battled
in iron and the rain washed the blood away to
settle in small dark cities, which we tasted and
the smell caused a strange evolution to take
place in our emotions, and the change dressed
us in miraculous nights, the stars challenged
our answers

if they could glimpse into this present day
they would die in the presence of hate and emotion
that sleeps in every country

we contemplate distant illuminations,
yet the difficulty remains in
recognizing the true human
which is a dream the firstborn forgot and hopes
this earth will never feel

goodbye, said the captain. Goodbye, said the islander.
Next time test in your own country
perhaps New York or Paris

—John Pule
from Nuanua: Pacific Writing in English Since 1980

Equatorial Guinea

2008-10-12T11:51:00.000-07:00

Independence Day for Equatorial Guinea! And you will be surprised to learn that Equatorial Guinea is not, in fact, equatorial. It just misses, lying one degree north. The nation includes a continental region (coastal, not surprisingly) and an insular region—Bioko island is where the capital (Malabo) lies. Wow. I’m learning stuff already. Independence was achieved in 1968—independent from? Spain.

In terms of pre-European history, we don’t know a lot. It’s believed the first inhabitants were Pygmies—and there are still small populations of Pygmie peoples in the north of Rio Muni, the continental part of the country. Bantu and Fang populations migrated between the 17th and 19th century. It’s thought that the Bubi—the first inhabitants of Bioko, may have come from the Fang. From my understanding, though, none of this is absolutely certain.

In terms of Western contact, it’s said that Fernão do Pó—a Portuguese explorer—was the first European to discover Bioko island, back in 1472. He called it Formosa (for “beautiful”) and then it took on his own name before, more recently, becoming known as Bioko. Portugal colonised the island and nearby Annabón in 1474, and then in 1778 the islands were ceded to Spain.

Independence? Well, as well as pressure from Equatoguineans, Spain was also under pressure from the United Nations to grant independence. On 11 August 1968 a referendum was held, with 63 percent of the electorate in favor of the constitution that had been drafted. Before the official “Independence Day” Equatorial Guinea elected Francisco Macías Nguema as president. The next part of the story? In 1970 the country became a one-party state. In 1972 Macías took on the title President for Life. Under governmental neglect the basic infrastructure of the country—electricity, water, roads, health—fell into ruin. The economy went south, and foreigners left the country, along with skilled Equatoguinean citizens. Pretty bleak.

1975: the schools were closed. 1978: the churches were closed. Colonial names were all replaced with native names.

Then in 1979, Macías’s own nephew Obiang led a coup d’état. Macías was arrested, tried and executed. Obiang is still in power today. Elections have generally been considered fraudulent, and government corruption is still rife.

There was an alleged coup attempt in 2004, but it failed. This recent coup attempt is a weird one—it’s been called “the new Kuwait” by some. It was led by mercenaries, and most financied by British-based backers. The goal? To open the country’s mineral wealth. Among the backers? This is where is gets a little weird. Margaret Thatcher’s son, The Hon. Sir Mark Thatcher was involved. There’s also speculation that Jeffrey Archer was involved. It just seems weird.

From the weird to the poetic—today’s poem, “Delirium,” is by María Nsue Angüe. It comes from Marvin Lewis’s An introduction to the literature of Equatorial Guinea: between colonialism and dictatorship.

Delirium

In the mirror of my past
there appear ghosts enmeshed
in a dark curtain, where my present

is shattered, and my future
crumbles in nothingness.

Faces of shadows swarm
in my mirror!
Your faces sketched by hunger
carry a stamp of misery as deep
as the revolving song of my sadness
that shouts at me to the depth of my bones
that I shall die like the offended Christ
who having been born in his time
those of his era did not recognize him.

—María Nsue Angüe

Spain

2008-10-12T11:16:00.000-07:00

I almost went to Spain five years ago—but then my friend Felicity and I opted to go for Corsica instead. And while I have no complaints (Corsica was beautiful) I am a little sad I didn’t make it to Spain. Still, someday I hope to take the pilgrims walk to Santiago de Compostela in Galicia. Someday. In the mean time, today is Spain’s Dia de la Hispanidad.

So, back during the days of the Roman Empire, the Mediterranean coast of Hispania was under Roman control, with other parts of the country displaying various degrees of Roman influence. Apparently agriculture was big business, as Spain acted as a granary for the Romans, as well as exporting gold, wool, olive oil and wine. Hey! I never knew Seneca was born in Hispania! I also didn’t know that the name “Andalusia” tells the history of the area’s separartion from Rome. When the Vandals established a kingdom, it was named “Vandalusia”—later transformed to Andalusia.

Fast forward a few centuries, and there’s the Muslim conquest of sections of the Iberian peninsula. The capital of the caliphate—Córdoba—was the important in the Europe of the day. Important? The superlatives largest, richest and most sophisticated have been applied. And let’s not forget that without Arabic scholars—including those present in Spain at this period—Greek learning would have been revived much more slowly.

Of course, Muslim rule didn’t last either, and over centuries it broke up leading eventually to the Spanish Empire. Which of course came to include large swathes of South and Central America, Mexico and sections of what is now the United States along with plenty of islands. Of course, within Europe Spain faced plenty of challenges from Barbary pirates (pirates!) to new threats of Islamic invasion.

So, Spain has had plenty to do. The twentieth century was no difference—following the establishment of the Second Spanish Republic came the Spanish Civil War from 1936 to 1939. The Nationalist forces—under General Franco—emerged the stronger side. Who was on their side? Nazi Germany and Fascist Italy. Sometimes the Spanish Civil War is called the first battle of the Second World War. Franco came out of the Civil War as dictator. He died in 1975. At a Davis Cup match in Australia a few years ago the officials committed a major faux pas, playing the Spanish national anthem from the Franco years, and not the current anthem. Not surprisingly, the players were very upset. Oh, and Spanish tennis players? All kinds of amazing.

More recently, we think of the bombs that exploded in commuter trains in 2004: initially Basque separatists were suspected, but last year it was concluded that the perpetrators were from a local Islamist militant group.

And when we talk about the Spanish language, we’re referring to Castilian, which is the only language with an official status through the whole country. Other major languages are Basque, Catalan and Galician—and there are plenty of other languages spoke.

The arts? Well, Don Quixote is one of the greatest works of literature ever written. Velázquez’s paintings are amazing, as are El Greco’s. And, yes, we know Picasso was one of the most influential artists of the twentieth century. Still, for me the greatest Spanish artist will always be Goya. There’s cinema—including the greats Luis Buñuel and Pedro Almadóvar. And then there’s flamenco. I took flamenco lessons for a year. I want to go back to them. Time, money. The eternal inhibitors.

For a poem I have chosen a piece by Lorca. I love Lorca. This is actually the opening poem to his early volume Poem of the Deep Song. The book is a wonder.

Little Ballad of the Three Rivers


             To Salvador Quintero

The river Guadalquivir
winds through orange and olive trees.
The two rivers of Granada
descend from the snow to the wheat.

Ay, love
that went away and never returned!

The river Guadalquivir
has whiskers of garnet.
The two rivers of Granada,
one weeping and the other blood.

Ay, love
that went away through the air!

For ships with sail
Sevilla has a route;
in the waters of Granada
only righs row about.

Ay, love
that went away and never returned!

Guadalquivir, a tall tower
and wind in the orange groves.
Darro and Genil, dead little 
towers rising from the lakes.

Ay, love
that went away through the air!

One could say that the water carries
a will-o’-the-wisp filled with cries!

Ay, love
that went away and never returned!

Carry orange blossom, carry olivers,
Andalusia, down to your seas.

Ay, love
that went away through the air!

—Federico García Lorca
translated from the Spanish by Carlos Bauer
from Poem of the Deep Song

Fiji

2008-10-10T07:00:00.001-07:00

When I was about 6 I got my first passport: my family was thinking of taking an overseas holiday. I was thrilled. Even then I was, apparently dreaming of the sheer number of fascinating places in the world. I admit that my first thought was Europe (hey, as Australians we had a heavily British influence… especially since I grew up watching the ABC, with all its BBC programming)—but the plan was a trip to Fiji. Unfortunately it never happened, and I still haven’t been to Fiji. Though I plan to make it to that corner of the world sometime. So let’s celebrate Fiji Day, and keep your fingers crossed that someday I will realise this first-proposed international sojourn. (My parents went a few years ago and brought me back some Fijian black peppercorns. I’m a pepper-fan.)

From archaeological evidence, it looks like there have been people in Fiji for around 3000 years, though it took until 1643 for Europeans to show up. The intrepid voyager in this case? Abel Tasman, while he was looking for the Great Southern Continent. It took until the 19th century for outsiders to settle in the islands, starting in 1822, and Fiji became a British colony in 1874. (Incidentally, one of my most vivid memories of a lecture from my undergraduate Arts degree was from Robin Grove’s closely reading of a passage of George Eliot’s Middlemarch—part of the passage mentioned “Feejee.” Middlemarch was published serially in the few years before Fiji was officially made a colony, and published in a single volume the same year. Middlemarch was set during the early 1830s.)

After nearly 100 years as a British colony, Fiji gained independence in 1970. Unfortunately after 17 years things democratic rule was tripped up by a pair of military coups. And of course that wasn’t the last coup—the new millennium brought a new coup. Ouch. That was followed up most recently with the coup of 2006, which really occurred after the pressure continued to build after the 2000 coup, and 2005-2006 political crisis. Fiji has been suspended from the Commonwealth of Nations a few times—after the 2006 coup the nation was suspended again, and it remains in suspension. Following the coup, human rights groups such received reports of human rights abuses such as arbitrary detention and torture of critics of the coup into the early months of 2007. Meanwhile it’s reported today that the interim leader, Commodore Frank Bainimarama, seems to be determined to resist any return to democratic rule.

Today’s poem, “Ballet for a Sea-bird,” is by Satendra Nandan, and comes from Nuanua: Pacific Writing in English Since 1980.

Ballet for a Sea-bird

in the blue lightning-lashed sea
the black wave-thrashed rock
entangle, entwine and mock
perhaps some common destiny!

the dark waters rise to fall:
the rock resists, bits crumble;
the waves hiss, boil over, tumble
above it all, a lost bird’s call!

from the green sea it rose—
an extension of the sea foam?
to rest its breast on a craggy home—
the immensity of death still so close!

it wobbles, flutters, loses its hold:
cries, crashed into the marbled ocean
an act larger than its last emotion:
the sleepless sea rocks it in its fold!

but in the cracks of the rock, moss
had seen the bird search for an answer
with the myriad movements of a dancer
touched by another life’s tenderness!

the waves swirl to reach evermore
the infinity of a blind, birdless sky;
only in my heart, the tiny gull’s cry
sings as I scuttle from shore to shore!

—Satendra Nandan
from Nuanua: Pacific Writing in English Since 1980

Cuba

2008-10-10T07:00:00.000-07:00

Cuban cigars. Cuban heels. I admit, I’m a fan of the latter. (I’ve only smoked two cigars in my life—I don’t think either of them was Cuban, though I wasn’t really paying attention. I bought the one recommended by the cigar-guy in Melbourne. Cuban heels, however, are wonderful.) And I guess I don’t really need to say “Castro” or “Bay of Pigs” or “Cuban Missile Crisis,” do I?

Hey, I never really knew that Cuba consisted of a several islands! I shouldn’t be surprised, I know. Oh, and 10 October, Cuban Independence Day, celebrates Cuba’s declaration of independence from Spain on 10 October, 1868. The republic was declared on 20 May, 1902 and of course there was that whole Cuban revolution in 1959.

Yes, being back in the Caribbean means we’re back in the territory of Christopher Columbus. While he was roving around on his first voyage of discovery he sighted Cuba and claimed it for Spain—I’m guessing he did at that stage inform the Taíno and Ciboney people who called the island home (descended from migrants from South America—and possible Central and North America—after a series of migrations centuries before—and perhaps thousands of years prior to Columbus’s explorations.)

So, we’re in colonial Spanish territory. And, since this is the Caribbean, there were also pirates. (You remember how much I love it when pirates show up, right? It feels like it’s been a long time without pirates.)

It took a while for Cuba to gain its independence after the declaration—and it also took quite a long time for Cuba to abolish slavery. The latter happened in 1886, under pressure from the US, though it didn’t mark a huge improvement in conditions for the African-descended minority. Oh, and actual independence? That arrived, formally, in 1902.

Hey! Cuba smuggled sugar to Britain via Sweden during World War I. That’s so cool. They also supplied sugar during World War II, and upped the ante by providing manganese as well.

And Castro? Well, we know that as a result of the Cuban Missile Crisis there’s been a trade embargo in place since the 1960s. My understanding is that President Kennedy obtained a large supply of Cuban cigars, and then put the embargo in place.

Most recently, obviously, there’s been the Castro to Castro transfer of power, and Raúl took over from his brother Fidel.

The government has been accused of human rights abuses, ranging from arbitrary imprisonment and unfair trials to torture and extra-judicial executions. According to Human Rights Watch the number of political prisoners in Cuba may be vastly understated—and prisoners are held in jails with substandard, unhealthy conditions. With tourism a big industry in Cuba, I’m guessing most visitors don’t engage in this side of Cuban society. That’s natural—there are human rights problems all over the world (Australia is no exception)—and there are a lot of wonderful cultural things to experience, by all reports—especially the music and dancing. But it’s good to keep in mind things that can be improved.

And a Cuban poem? I’ve chosen “A Story” by Reinaldo Arenas. This piece appeared in the Anthology of Contemporary Latin American Literature 1960-1984 and was translated by Anthony Kerrigan and Jeanne Cook.

A Story


Already 35 years old, with his stomach empty,
and his dozen books only in manuscript because
given their bias
they would never be published by the State,
Roberto Fernández decided to commit suicide.
          Then the Devil appeared.
          Naturally he appeared in uniform, numberless
decorations glittering along the length of his chest.
          Man and Devil chatted for several hours.
          Fernández altered all his manuscripts. He added, subtracted,
obliterated, emended, eliminated everything which might,
by the present generation, which is zealously building the Future.”
          His works were published at once in the de luxe collection
Unidimensional Belle-Lettres. He was awarded, ipso facto, 
by express order of the Devil, the grand prize “Aurora Medal,”
and he was allotted—a great privilege—a spacious house.
          A few days later he died “unexpectedly.”
          His exequies ere in the nature of an apotheosis. Honor guards
were posted at civil and military ceremonies.
The Devil himself, who presided, climaxed
the funeral eulogies with a moving oration which was carried
around the progressive world. 
          His body was cremated, along with his manuscripts—those
he had carefully corrected as well as all his originals.
          Without a doubt, the Devil is a reliable guard.

—Reinaldo Arenas
translated by Anthony Kerrigan and Jeanne Cook
from Anthology of Contemporary Latin American Literature 1960-1984

Uganda

2008-10-09T08:45:00.000-07:00

On 9 October, 1962 Uganda gained its independence from the UK. So—Ugandan Independence Day. I admit that when I think of Uganda I can’t help but think of Idi Amin. We’ll get to that. So Uganda is landlocked, in East Africa—not to far from the centre of the continent really. Its neighbours are Kenya, Sudan, the Democratic Republic of the Congo, Rwanda and Tanzania. Just looking at that list you can see another history of turmoil. Oh, and while the country is landlocked there are a lot of large lakes. So. No shortage of water.

The first known inhabitants came to the region between 2000 and 1500 years ago. These were Bantu peoples, bringing in ironworking skill—and new social structures. Still, it wasn’t until the 14th or 15th century, with the Empire of Kitara, that these ideas translated into a more formal societal and political structure. I guess that means before that these structures were on a smaller scale, less formal.

Being part of the African interior, Uganda came into contact with the outside world—both Arabic and European—later than the coastal regions of Africa. In the 1830s Arab traders were the first to move inland, from their posts along the Indian Ocean coastline. Thirty yeas later British explorers ventured into the region, as they were searching for the source of the Nile. Of course, once the explorers had arrived, missionaries had to follow. That’s just the way it goes, apparently. What comes next? The desire to profit. So Uganda came under the charter of the British East Africa Company in 1888, leading to its political emergence as a British protectorate in 1894. It took another twenty years for the final shape of the protectorate to emerge—more territories were integrated—and this is what became modern-day Uganda.

So independence led to a long period of coups and military rule. And, yes, the most famous instance of the latter was Idi Amin’s rule from 1971 until 1979. His rule ushered in human rights abuses, political repression, extrajudicial killings and ethnic persecution—including the expulsion of Asians (in particular entrepreneurial Indians) from the country. Estimates on the number killed during his rule vary—they range from 100,000 to half a million.

When Idi Amin was overthrown, there was still a period of instability—it took until the 1986 deposition of General Tito Okello and the establishment of Yoweri Museveni ‘s rule for the situation to stabilise. It took a further decade for elections to occur: Museveni was voted back in—international and domestic observers stated that the vote was valid, though the opposition candidates rejected the results. He has won two subsequent terms, though the 2006 elections were cause for concern—the Supreme Court of Uganda, though voting to uphold the election results, noted that the process had involved intimidation, violence, voter disenfranchisement and other irregularities. So, while he has been praised in the west, it appears that the system isn’t perfect. (An understatement?) Museveni’s tenure has also been subject to allegations of corruption and embezzlement of public funds. Also, torture is reported as a widespread practice among security organizations. Rights for refugees and immigrants has been an issue too—apparently there have been forcible deportations and violence directed against refugees.

Today’s poem is by Taban Lo Liyong. He was born in Northern Uganda, studied in the United States, and taught in Nairobi. The poem is “Song from the Congolese.” I admit, I like this melting pot. I'm afraid I'm going to have to check up on where I found it initially and update later.

Song from the Congolese


When I was young mother told me to shut up
     or else the ten-eyed giant would hear me.
When I was young mother told me to finish my food
     or else daddy would spank me dead.
When I was young sister told me to steal
     or else I would not get my meal.
When I was young mother told me to bathe
     or else the akula would catch me at night.
When I was young I was told to be home at night
     or else abiba would eat my liver.
When I was young teachers told me to pray at night
     or else Satan would be by my side.

Now that I am old the giant comes and visits me:
     I can see his red ten eyes and bloody teeth;
Now that I am old I can feel the hand of father
     when with rage he beats me as if I was a foe;
Now that I am old I still remember sister 
      when hunger comes and gnaws my entrails;
Now that I am old I know the Black Maria for sure
     as the truck to take me for cutting up;
Now that I am old I know the eagle overhead is for sure
     that bird which eats my life while I am alive;
Now that I am old I go to pray
     in order to get some quiet.

—Taban Lo Liyong

Croatia

2008-10-08T11:24:00.000-07:00

Croatia has a lot of dates. Founded in the 7th century. Became a medieval duchy on 4 March ,853. Was recognised by the Pope on 21 May in 879. Elevated from Duchy to Kingdom in 925. United with Hungary in 1102. Became part of the Habsburg Empire on 1 January, 1527. Gained independence from the Austria-Hungary on 29 October, 1918. Joined Yugoslavia on 1 December 1918. Declared its independence on 25 June, 1991. And on 8 October each year Croatia celebrates Dan Nezavisnosti, or Independence Day.

Leading up to 8 October in 1991 were the speech made by President Tuđman on 5 October, calling on the population to defend Croatia against what he termed the “Greater-Serbian imperialism.” On 7 October there was an explosion in the main government building in Zagreb—though Croatia’s leaders survived this event. The following day Croatia cut all ties with then-Yugoslavia. This didn’t stop the war—in particular, Vukovar fell to the Serbs after a siege lasting three months. This resulted in the Vukovar massacre (not the only massacre during the period by any means), when 264 people were killed by Serb militias, who were aided by the Yugoslav People’s Army. The victims were mostly Croats, but the community was a mixed Croat-Serb community, and there were victims on both sides—the only positive outcome here is that this event contributed to the move toward a resolution of the war. It took till 1992 for the ceasefire to hold. Still, it didn’t all end there—there was intermittent conflict in 1993 and it took till 1995 for the war to end—after most eruptions of violence. At the end of it all, tens of thousands of Croats had been expelled from their homes by force, with nearly 12,000 killed and 1348 still missing. 118,000 Croats were expelling from Serb-held parts of Bosnia, most of whom continue to live in Croatia. On the flip-side, around 200,000 Serbs fled from Croatia at the end of the way, and only a small fraction of these have returned to Croatia.

Now Croatia is starting to get a reputation as a tourist spot—especially those beaches on the Adriatic. (I’m yet to set foot on them, but have high hopes that moment will come soon.) There are thousands of islands that belong to Croatia too—including the beguilingly vowel-less Krk.

I have a short poem for you today by Anka Zagar. I found it online here.

Vermeer

she has come in from all sides
into the water that makes you from all sides
alone wanting to remember
how she had come in,
that girl that would like to
put pearls on her neck

—Anka Zagar
Translated from the Croation by Sibila Petlevski

Macau

2008-10-07T20:11:00.000-07:00

On 7 October Macau, a special administrative region of the People’s Republic of China, celebrates Chong Yeong, or Ancestors’ Day. Macau? It was the first Europeans colony in China—the Portuguese arrived in the 16th century, administering the region until 20 December 1999, when it was handed back to China. This means it also outlasted the other special administrative region of Hong Kong. Macau itself (which is very close to Hong Kong) consists of the Macau peninsula and the islands Taipa and Coloane.

While there were people living the region a long time before the Portuguese arrived, apparently Macau didn’t develop into a major settlement until the Europeans hit the shore. I imagine it must have been laidback when it was mostly fishermen—no casinos back then. (Tourism is big—can you say “Gambling Mecca?”)

After the establishment of the People’s Republic of China, relations between the Portuguese and the Chinese got a bit complicated—the government in Beijing declared the Sino-Portuguese Treaty of Amity and Commerce invalid, deeming it an “unequal treaty.” When the government first declared this in 1949, there wasn’t a lot of movement on the question. Things started to change after riots broke out in 1966, during the Cultural Revolution. The Portuguese government apologised, and this saw the beginning of de facto control by the Chinese. While there was a treaty signed in 1987 making Macau a special administrative region of China, it took another 12 years for China to resume sovereignty.

Rather than a poem, what I actually have something a little different: a segment of Jules Verne’s book The Great Navigators of the Eighteenth Century, which contains an account of La Perouse, the French explorer, arriving at Macau during his voyage around the world. The full text is available online here.

After taking the position of the Bashees, without stopping, La Perouse sighted the coast of China, and next day cast anchor in the roadstead of Macao.

Here La Perouse met with a small French cutter, commanded by M. de Richery, midshipman, whose business it was to cruise about the eastern coast, and protect French trade.

The town of Macao is so well known that it is needless for us to give La Perouse's description of it. The constant outrages and humiliations to which Europeans were daily subjected under the most despotic and cowardly government in the world, aroused the indignation of the French captain, and made him heartily wish that an international expedition might put a stop to so intolerable a state of things.

The furs which had been collected upon the American coasts were sold at Macao for ten thousand piastres. The sum produced should have been divided among the crews, and the head of the Swedish company undertook to ship it at Mauritius; but the unfortunate sailors themselves were never to receive the money.

Leaving Macao on the 5th of February, the vessels directed their course to Manilla, and, after sighting the shoals of Pratas, Bulinao, Manseloq, and Marivelle, wrongly placed upon D'Après' maps, they were forced to put into the port of Marivelle, to wait for better winds and more favourable currents.

—Jules Verne, The Great Navigators of the Eighteenth Century

Lesotho

2008-10-04T15:40:00.000-07:00

When I was in primary school and my brother was just starting high school, he came home with an assignment—I don’t know what class it was for (Geography?)—to write a project of Lesotho. (His best friend was given Swaziland: I think everyone in the class had a different African nation.) So it feels like I’ve always known where Lesotho is, that it’s an enclave surrounded entirely by South Africa, and when naming as many African nations as possible, it’s one I would never leave out. But I’m realising today that, despite this awareness, I don’t know much about Lesotho. For instance: something as basic as the capital. (It’s Maseru.) Since today is Lesotho’s Independence Day (celebrating their 1966 independence from the United Kingdom) it’s time for me to do a little reading. Hey! Lesotho is the only country that is entirely above 1000 metres above sea level. Wow. Snowy in the wintertime.

During the Bantu migration south, Bantu peoples arrived in the region that is now Lesotho—they spoke a dialect that is known as seSotho, and the name Basotho was their name for themselves.

When Lesotho first became a single polity is was known as Basutoland—this happened in 1818, when Moshoeshoe consolidated Basotho groups and, from 1823, became their king. During the 19th century, under Moshoeshoe I, the Basotho found a series of wars with Boers settling in land traditionally used by the Basotho. As a result of this warfare, Lesotho lost quite a bit of land—still referred to as the “Lost Territory.”

Eventually Moshoeshoe asked the British for help, leading to the country being placed under British protection in 1868. After Moshoeshoe’s death, the protectorate of Basutoland was annexed to Cape Colony—but Cape Town couldn’t control the territory, and so the reins went back to Britain.

The Basotho opposed transfer to the Union of South Africa: I don’t know how things would have proceeded if it weren’t for apartheid, but the policy of apartheid effectively halted the annexation process. 1959 saw a new constitution, 1965 general legislative elections. And then: independence.

Unfortunately Lesotho experienced the all-too-common problem of political turmoil when independence arrived. Post-independence elections meant nothing when the ruling party saw it might lose: the results were thrown out, parliament dissolved, and a national state of emergency declared.

In 1986—by Military Council decree—executive power was transferred to the king (Moshoeshoe II)—who was stripped of his power in 1990 and exiled. A new constitution in 1993 saw the King given only ceremonial powers.

And things have continued to be rocky: multiparty elections returned in 1998—and in August 1998 a violent protest occurred outside the royal palace. South African and Boswanan troops, at the request of the government, entered the country (on what, it turns out, was my 19th birthday) to help prevent a military coup. Recent elections have been judged to be free and fair. Hopefully some stability will help things along.

Things seem to be improving a little—but there have been serious human rights abuses reported too, such as torture of detainees, lengthy pre-trial detention, child labour, and discrimination.

It took me some serious investigation to find a text for you—not a lot has been translated. Still, I found David Bellin Coplan’s book In the Time of Cannibals, which cites the songs of migrants from Lesotho who go to work in the mines and cities of South Africa. The following example of these migrant’s “word music” is by Majara Majara. I found it online here.

It contains nothing, this singing:
I say I know how to make this rope,
And I know how to finish it.
I say to you, long-time poets,
The days are two you [Coplan] visited me;
This is the last day:
You will respect me, the honorable one, trule.
I am not an apprentice but a doctor—
I am the horned one;
I’m not longer an owlet but a great horned owl.
What am I saying to you, my parents?
I’m the horned one who stays in the trees

—Majara Majara
from David Bellin Coplan’s In the Time of Cannibals

Iraq

2008-10-03T13:09:00.000-07:00

Today is Iraq’s National Day—the anniversary of Iraqi independence from the United Kingdom in 1932. Now, I don’t want to write about the current situation: we hear about it day after day. And yet, it would seem strange to try and write about the twentieth century in Iraq without getting into the more recent conflict. What I do want to write about is the early history of what is now Iraq. I feel like it’s easy to forget the Sumerians, Akkadians, Assyrians and Babylonians when thinking of Iraq, as instead we hear about the Surge.

The Epic of Gilgamesh comes out of this early milieu—what I didn’t know is that Gilgamesh, on the Sumerian king list (which I didn’t know existed prior to… well, right now), as the son of Lugalbanda and the fifth king of Uruk. Incidentally, there are a few different theories as to where the name “Iraq” comes from, and one links the name to the city of Uruk. So: this is the region that brought us one of the earliest known works of literature.

It’s also the site of Babylon—which emerged in what is now southern Iraq during the lifetime of Hammurabi around the 17th century BCE. Babylon? Yes, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon once stood near present-day Al Hillad. But there is a question, still, as to whether the Hanging Gardens were real, and not just a poetic creation. Babylonian chronicles don’t document them—a Chaldean priest described them, and then Greek historians Strabo and Diodorus elaborate. Nebuchadnezzar is he one who is said to have constructed the gardens, and I like to think of them as real. (But then, I also like to think of poetic creations as real. I’m not a Babylonian scholar, nor could I pretend to be.) Oh, and don’t forget the Tower of Babel. Because the tower wasn’t built to the glory of god, I speak English and not the original language of Adam—or so the story goes.

And, of course, it’s the site of the Babylonian captivity—the name given to the exile of the Jews from the Kingdom of Judah, also under Nebuchadnezzar—after the Persian rule Cyrus the Great overthrew the Babylonia, the Jews were able to return to Israel.

This is all woefully inadequate—but when you open the newspaper to read about the current situation, think about this ancient world from time to time.

In the mean time, today’s poem is by Iraqi poet Nazik al-Mala’ika, and it comes from Language for a New Century.

Insignificant Woman



When she closed her eyes
No face faded, no lips quivered.
Doors heard no retelling of her death.
No curtain was lifted to air the room of grief.
No eyes followed her coffin
To the end of the road.
Only a memory of a lifeless form
           passing in some lane.

The word echoed in alleyways,
Hushed sounds, finding no shelter,
Settled in secluded den.
A moon mourned
In silence.

Night, unconcerned, gave way to morning.
Daylight crept in with the milk cart
           and a call to fasting.
A meager cat mewing
Amidst the shrill of vendor’s cries.
Boys squabbling
           throwing stones.
Muddy waters spilling
           along the gutters
As the wind carried foul smells
To rooftops.
Oblivion.

—Nazik al-Mala’ika
translated from Arabic by Kamal Boullata
from Language for a New Century

Germany

2008-10-03T07:00:00.000-07:00

Ah, Germany. Today is Germany Unity Day—I expect most people remember the days of East Germany and West Germany? The Berlin Wall? Ja? Today we’re celebrating the reunification of Germany in 1990. I was pretty young when the Berlin wall came down (though there are still segments standing—I was in Berlin a few years ago, and stayed on the East Side, near the section known as the “East Side Gallery”). I have the types of strange memories that come from witnessing something half a world away that you know, as a child, is momentous—but you don’t fully understand. I remember the concert mounted in Berlin. I watched it on television with my brothers. Cyndi Lauper performed a song, and at one moment she was lying on the stage, prompting my brother to ask “Who says you can’t sing lying down?” I realise this seems a little frivolous—and I really do not want to downplay the significance of the event. What I want to say is that, as a 10 year old even I sat down to watch the events unfolding. That Berlin is a city of visible scars, and those scars are important to remember.

Germany of course also brings visions of the World Wars—especially from the Holocaust, or the Shoah—or, in the words of Paul Celan, “that which happened”. World War II is another scar. The country where the Reformation began; that had its own Romanticism in Goethe, Schiller, Novalis and others; that gave us the music of Bach; that gave us Albrecht Dürer—well, it also brought us a vision of what humans are capable of inflicting on other humans. Following the separation of East and West, there was also the East German Stasi. The puzzle women are still piecing together documents that reveal the fates of many East German people in the years of separation.

The truth is, there are places I feel contain so many big ideas—wonderful and awful—that I can’t comprehend them. I know that sometimes people talk about a reluctance for Germans to discuss their recent history—though this is changing, with the younger generation wanting to confront it. I just know that it was hard not to be aware of the history of the German twentieth-century as I walked around Berlin.

I have chosen a poem by the poet Peter Huchel for today. It comes from the anthology Twentieth-Century German Poetry.

Roads

Choked sunset glow
Of crashing time.
Roads. Roads.
Intersections of flight.
Cart tracks across the ploughed field
That with the eyes
Of killed horses
Saw the sky in flames.

Nights with lungs full of smoke,
With the hard breath of the fleeing
When shots
Struck the dusk.
Out of a broken gate
Ash and wind came without a sound,
A fire
That sullenly chewed the darkness.

Corpses,
Flung over the rail tracks,
Their stifled cry
Like a stone on the palate.
A black
Humming cloth of flies
Closed their wounds.

—Peter Huchel
translated from the German by Michael Hamburger
from Twentieth-Century German Poetry

Guinea

2008-10-02T09:52:00.000-07:00

2 October brings us to Guinea’s Independence Day. I know you might get confused here—there’s Guinea, Guinea-Bissau and Equatorial Guinea, all separate nations. (I must admit that adding in the South American Guyana and French Guiana can confuse… well, at least me, further. But I expect that ‘s just me. But remember, if it’s spelt like the odd British currency amount for a pound and a shilling—who thought of that?—then it’s in West Africa.) Independence came in 1958, went Guinea ceased to be a French holding.

Oh, and the name actually comes from a Sosso word—“Guinee.” I like the story there. Explorers arrived and asked a group of women the name of the country—the women were washing clothes in the river. The women (not surprisingly) didn’t understand what the men were asking, and (again, not surprisingly) were afraid. What they said was “guinee nai mora,” which apparently translates as “we are women.” So. The Europeans assumed that “Guinee” was the name. Now, I don’t know if this is apocryphal, but either way, it’s meant to be the standard “and that’s how Guinea got its name” story.

Modern-day Guinea started out as part of different African empires—around 900 CE it was part of the Ghana Empire, before, 300 years or so later, moving into the Sosso kingdom. In 1235 the Mali Empire moved into the region. Later the Songhai Empire came along—but civil war proved a problem there. And, of course, Europeans came along—the Portuguese were the first—arriving around the same time as the Songhai state was beginning, in 1460. It took a century for the slave trade to start—and until 1592 for the Songhai Empire to end. But I believe that’s coincidence.

And the French? Well, colonisation took place during the Scramble for Africa. 1890 was the year, and a few years later the Guinea was made part of French West Africa. When Charles de Gaulle held a referendum in 1958 on a new French constitution and the creation of the Fifth Republic, colonies were given the option of independence, or retention of colonial status. At that time, Guinea was the only colony to opt for immediate independence, and it follow quickly on the heels of this: the referendum took place on 28 September, independence was declared on 2 October. That’s quick moving.

Of course, independence did bring some familiar problems: a dictator (Ahmed Sékou Touré) who didn’t place human rights high on his priority list. He ruled until his death in 1984, when Lansana Conté took over—changing the economic direction of the country, but keeping with the dictatorial style of leadership. The first elections were held in 1993—but those elections, and all held since, have been disputed and Conté is still the president. Last year Eugene Camara—an ally of Conté’s—was nominated as Prime Minister. This was met with violent demonstrations and strikes, with the government responding by declaring martial law. Conté did agree to nominate a new Prime Minister—his options came from a list of candidates drawn up by labor unions and civic leaders. Still, it sounds like tings have a long way to go.

On a lighter note, there are nearly 11,000 members of the Scouts in Guinea.

Today’s poem comes from the anthology French African Verse. This poem is by Nene Khaly. Enjoy!

Bad Weather

The West wind shakes the leaves
The leaves fall, troubled consciences
Extinguishes consciences
Crush Africa

The sun of the Soudan fires the savannahs
The savannahs are shut to tomorrow’s harvest
The stolen harvests in the silent grainstores
Starve Africa

The round of the frenzied winds
The dead silence of faulty consciences
A sun of wretchedness drying the skins
And savannahs with their harvests of thorns
Make my dark heart bleed

See now, at this moment the eternal rain is falling

Rain that cuts the paths with ravines
Slippery paths that betray my steps
Unconfident steps that lead nowhere
Not even back home

But ebony cheeks have drained these waves
And the sea has swelled up new breasts
In the future cry of the new-born child
Let the wind sing with the leaves in the rain
And my sun
To cauterize these tears.

—Nene Khaly
from French African Verse

Tuvalu

2008-10-01T07:00:00.005-07:00

Earlier this year I read about a Japanese photographer that has taken on the project of photographing every member of the Tuvaluan population: both size and population-wise Tuvalu is one of the smallest countries in the world. Moreover, the country is under treat of submersion due to its extremely low elevation (the highest point is 5 metres above sea level): obviously we’ve been hearing about rising sea levels for a while. The photographer wants to capture this entire nation now, in case it becomes necessary for them to evacuate in the future. Evacuation? Most likely to New Zealand, Niue or the Fijian island of Kioa. These days, though, they’re still in Tuvalu. I hope they don’t have to give up their islands (capital: Funafati) too soon… In the mean time, let’s celebrate the 1 October 1978 independence of Tuvalu from the United Kingdom.

The islands of Tuvalu have been inhabited for about 3000 years, with settlers arriving from Tonga and Samoa. Historically 8 of the 9 islands that make up Tuvalu were inhabited, and that’s where the name comes from: it means “eight standing together.” If you want to add a little mystery, in 1986 the Caves of Nanumanga were discovered by divers. There was a local legend of a “large house under the sea” and, yes, scuba divers found the cave more than 40 metres down the wall of a coral cliff. Apparently dark patches on the cave’s walls and roof, as well as blackened coral fragments suggest the use of fire. Apparently there’s a scientific problem because the cave couldn’t have been used in the last 8000 year, due to what we know of sea levels—but other evidence points to occupation of that region of the pacific more recently than that. It’s a delightful mystery, though.

Even when Europeans did start careening around the Pacific, they didn’t stop in at Tuvalu too often—the surrounding atolls made it difficult to land, and no settlements were set up. It wasn’t until the second half of the 19th century that the London Missionary Society took it upon themselves to Christianise the Tuvaluans. Apparently this process was complete by the 1920s. I’m going to restrain myself on that.

While Tuvalu didn’t see any large-scale colonisation, it was the victim of blackbirding. Peruvian slave raiders came in the years from 1862-1864. Over 400 were taken—none returned. Blackbirding from the Pacific islands continued until the very start of the twentieth century—I’m ashamed that Australia, too, was guilty of blackbirding, and find it awful that I was never taught that in school.

As a British protectorate for most of the twentieth century, Tuvalu was known as the Ellice Islands, and grouped with the Gilbert Islands. In 1974, though, the Ellice islands voted for separated from the Gilbert Islands due to ethnic differences. The Gilberts became Kiribati, while, yes, the Ellices became Tuvalu.

Tuvalu has no military, and spends no money on military accoutrements. There is a police force. Australia gave it a Pacific-class patrol boat. That way, they can use it for maritime surveillance and fishery patrol.

Subsistence farming and fishing are pretty much the backbone of the nation, with most income coming from foreign aid—alongside they revenue they still get from their “.tv” internet domain name, which they leased, in 2000, for a 12-year period.

I had trouble finding a poem by a Tuvaluan poet, but I did find a piece by a poet of partly Tuvaluan descent. The author, Selina Tusitala Marsh writes of herself “Talofa lava. I am the daughter of Lina Vaelei Tusitala Crosbie and James Crosbie. I am of Samoan, Tuvaluan, English, Scottish and French descent.” I found the poem online here.

‘dancing pili’ (for Lemi Ponifasio)

sipping bitter ava swooped before hesitant hands  
fa’afetai tele lava – may God bless Mau  
and those who partake in their creativity  
appropriate solemnity spotlight  
highlight this performance within performance  
cupped with both hands  
shell to mouth  
eyes and eyes and eyes  
rank and recognition  
a Herald article, Samoa Observer, Samoa Times  
Gulf News and Waiheke Weekly  
rank and recognition and eyes and eyes and eyes  
she only half knows

but Carol Hirshfield doesn’t believe in half and part  
‘afa’ mirrored in ava  
I am Maori Hirshfield stated  
Its like being a little pregnant – you can’t  
quoted the Herald  
‘afa’ in ava  
like siva except steps are copied not known  
and hands mimic borrowed stories  
stiffness a traitor  
like a pili caught in head lights  
white powder crouched man  
naked in knowing  
half wall crawl of black  
jet engine noises drum in foreign in primal meaning  
caved water droplets hollowing sound  
mau dancers slow dance and sweat as  
suited puppet natives jerk their siva too  
others march in blue and white mau lavalava  
white shirt curt hands stands attention  
to Master’s voice  
Lemi’s leading and pili’s pleading ignorance of this dance of death  
of life of light of paradise

the ceremony ends  
centred ava bowl moves into shadows
spotlight dims

she has a pili dancing in her heart

—Selina Tusitala Marsh

Palau

2008-10-01T07:00:00.003-07:00

I’m guessing you don’t think about the Republic of Palau that often. Shame on you. This little country in Oceania is home to over 20,000 people. Yes. It’s rather small, and its independence is rather new. 1994 saw Palau become Independence from its UN Trust Territory status. You may also know Palau by the name “The Black Islands”—on old maps this is how it was represented. There are two hundred islands in the island group. The capital is Melekeok.

As for the origins of the Palauan people—there are two groups that Palauans descend from. One of the Melanesian bloodlines is associated with indigenous Australians and Papua New Guineans, the other originated in Asia. Apparently (according to geneticists) there hasn’t been any link between the two established—well, except that they’re both present in Palau, right? Another interesting fact? Palau is home to the oldest burial ceremony currently known in Oceania. Also, their society is matrilineal.

While Palau may have been spotted in the 16th century by Europeans, Englishman Henry Wilson definitely visited when he was shipwreck off the island of Ulong in 1783. British traders visitors in the 18th century, and then the Spanish arrived in the 19th century, folding Palau into the Spanish East Indies, administering the islands from the Philippines. Until, that is, the Spanish-American War. After that conflict Spain sold the islands to Germany.

Germany didn’t control the islands very long, though—during World War I, the Empire of Japan declared war on the Germany, and proceeded to invade German territories in the Pacific. This included Palau, which the League of Nations awarded to Japan after the war ended.

Of course, World War II came along, and changed the game a bit. At a heavy cost to both sides, 1944 saw an Allied victory in Palau, and at the end of the war the UN helped decide that the US would administer Palau. In 1979 Palauans rejected the option of joining the Federated States of Micronesia. 1994 saw the country vote on its status: it retains Compact Free Association with the United States, but is, now, an independence nation. Palau was the last part of the Trust Territory of the Pacific Islands to gain independence.

I couldn’t find a poem from Palau, though I looked for a long time. What I did find was a fascinating article on Palauan proverbs by Robert K McKnight, that appeared in The Journal of American Folklore in 1968. While there were too many to copy out, I decided to copy the translated phrases pertraining to weather, seasons, time of day and other miscellaneous items. I feel that the list in itself forms a kind of poem.

Weather, Seasons, Time of Day, and Miscellaneous

The wind sleeps in the eskiik bush

Pushing out the leaves

Opening the trees

Jelling of the fruit

Year-east

Year-west

Disposing the group at Ngetkeuang

Like the crotch of an aristocratic woman

The sun is throwing projectiles

Mark of the spirit

The heavens are good

Water is without cost

Cyprus

2008-10-01T07:00:00.002-07:00

A few years ago, tennis-watchers got to see a star rising at the Australian Open as Marcos Baghdatis made it to the finals. Yes. I love poetry and tennis. Now, before Baghdatis could face off with Federer in the final (yes, Fed won—but it took him four sets) he had to get past Andy Roddick in the fourth round. Andy at that time had a squadron of girls in bikinis attending his games, while Marcos had what Roddick described as a band of “sweaty dudes.” Well, Baghdatis and his sweaty dudes were the winners on the day. I suppose the moral of the story is that having bikini-clad fans guarantees nothing. Commentators had some fun with the comment, largely because the Cypriots who were attending tennis events for the first time to support their compatriot were cheerful in accepting the characterisation. Please note: I’m not calling Cypriots sweaty dudes. I was delighted that, given the chance to show national pride, they showed up to watch a Cypriot play a sport they’d never given much thought to before.

So, we’re in the Mediterranean, celebrating the 1 October 1960 independence of Cyprus from the United Kingdom. Oh, and it’s the birthplace of Aphrodite and Adonis. Also, Pygmalion did a little sculpting here.

It’s been held by a few different people over the years—Britain had it’s first turn at the reigns way back in 1191 when Richard I captured it during the Third Crusade. Prior to that there was Assyrian, Egyptian and Persian rule, followed by Hellenization, annexation to the Roman Republic and integration into the Byzantine Empire. In the fifteenth century Venice took control before the Ottoman’s succeeded in capturing control. I’ve got to imagine that during certain eras living on an island in the Mediterranean must have encouraged one to wonder who was taking control next. Britain took over administration of the island in 1878, and it became a colony in 1925.

Following independence, violence broke out between the ethnic Greeks and Turks—with the “motherlands” of both groups getting in on the action. When Nikos Sampson was declared president in 1974 after a coup, he declared union with Greece. This prompted Turkey to respond by invading Cyprus. A third of the island came under Turkish occupation—Greek Cypriots in the north (who were in the majority) became refugees. The ceasefire line from 1974—referred to as the “Green Line”—still separates the communities on the island, and the Turkish occupied area calls itself the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus—this “state” is not recognised by any nation but Turkey.

More recently, the Committee on Missing Persons began the process of “Exhumation, Identification and Return of the Remains of Missing Persons.” At the end of last year 57 bodies had been identified and returned to their families. There are still over 2000 people missing as a result of the invasion.

The situation is not resolved: negotiations have been taking place on and off since 1964—ten years before Turkey invaded. Earlier this year, however, the Republic of Cyrpus demolished a wall that represented a division between north and south in the presence of officials from both sides.

Oh, and Nicosia is the capital, but Nicosia’s airport has been closed since the 1974 invasion. If you need to fly to Cyprus you’ll be coming into either Larnaca or Paphos.

Today’s poem from Cyprus is by Gür Genç. It comes, once again, from New European Poets. Enjoy!

I Worshipped Too Many Gods


1.

I worshipped too many gods, but
After the long winters in the North I know now
Sun, you are the most real!

     Ganged up with the Sea, in this
Arid paradise, what have you done
To the lost pieces of porcelain childhoods?

I’m back, and have little time, so tell me.

2.

The land, which gives seven, and takes nine
I’m back—against the proverbs
It’s arthritis accumulating in my joints

I’m asking you about those who hide in oblivion
And what hides buried inside you
And others dumped in the bottom of the well

Crossing over the limits of conditions
Overturning the towers of light onto thorny Mesaoria plains
And with the feeling of guilt

I’m back, and have little time, so tell me.

—Gür Genç
translated from the Turkish by Stephanos Stephanides
from New European Poets

Nigeria

2008-10-01T07:00:00.001-07:00

So Nigeria gained its independence from the United Kingdom on 1 October 1960. Three years later, also on 1 October, Nigeria was declared a republic. I could not have told you before now that Abuja is the capital, nor that it is the most populous country in Africa. (I do know the city of Lagos is in Nigeria—but only just learned that while it is the largest city, it is not the capital.)

I noticed some spectacular Nigerian objects when I visited the Smithsonian Museum of African Art a while ago. And you know what? People have been making art of various kinds in Nigeria for a few thousand years.

Europeans first arrived in the guise of the Portuguese, but it was the British who moved in later that left the greater mark. When the British were done with the Napoleonic Wars they expanded their trade with Nigeria, and later Britain’s relationship with Nigeria began to formalise so that, on 1 January 1901, Nigeria became a British protectorate. I suppose it is to Britain’s credit that, following the growing demand for Nigerian independence, after World War II the British Government legislated successive constitutions to move Nigeria toward self-government until full independence arrived.

It didn’t take long for disruption of the political process to occur. In 1966 alone there were a number of military coups, leading not just to political upheaval but, not surprisingly, ethnic tensions and violence. The Eastern Region declared itself an independent state (the Republic of Biafra) in 1967 leading to the Nigerian Civil War.

Following the end of the civil war came oil. Oil money came to the Nigerian state—but where did it go? Corruption meant that this oil-wealth didn’t really benefit the Nigerian people.

After a long time under military rule, 1979 saw Nigeria return to democracy—briefly. Unfortunately, Shehu Shagari’s civilian regime was seen as corrupt and incompetent, which lead to another military coup. However, after the new regime of Mohammahu Buhari promised reform but didn’t get much done in a hurry, there was yet another coup, placing Ibrahim Babangida. It took until 1993 for the next democratic elections to be held. The result? Babangida declared the results void. The population responded with mass protests and violence. A caretaker government took over briefly—and very victim to, yes, another coup. The dictator General Sani Abacha proved brutal, yet avoided coups through bribery on an impressive scale. He was fund dead in 1998.

Now Nigeria is back on the path to democracy—perhaps. The elections that have been held since 1999 have all been condemned as massively flawed. Meanwhile, the Niger Delta crisis continues.

Given the ongoing crisis, it’s perhaps appropriate that today’s poem comes from the anthology Against Forgetting, a collection edited by Carolyn Forché (disclosure: I know her, and she’s fantastic) of poetry of witness. This poem is by Wole Soyinka. Please read more of his work.

Civilian and Soldier


My apparition rose from the fall of lead,
Declared, ‘I’m a civilian.’ It only served
To aggravate your fright. For how could I 
Have risen, a being of this world, in that hour
Of impartial death! And I thought also: nor is
Your quarrel of this world.
                                          You stood still
For both eternities, and oh I heard the lesson
Of your training sessions, cautioning—
Scorch earth behind you, do not leave
A dubious neutral to the rear. Reiteration
Of my civilian quandary, burrowing earth
From the lead festival of your more eager friends
Worked the worse on your confusion, and when
You brought the gun to bear on me, and death
Twitched me gently in the eye, your plight
And all of you came clear to me.
                                           I hope some day
Intent upon my trade of living, to be checked
In stride by your apparition in a trench,
Signalling, I am a soldier. No hesitation then
But I shall shoot you clean and fair
With meat and bread, a gourd of wine
A bunch of breasts from either arm, and that
Lone question—do you friend, even now, know
What it is all about?

—Wole Soyinka
from Against Forgetting

China

2008-10-01T07:00:00.000-07:00

China. It’s so big that its national day is celebrated for three days. Yes. That’s right—from 1-3 October this year the Chinese will be celebrating. It’s the celebration of the 1949 founding of the People’s Republic of China. Yes, we all know that China’s been around a lot longer—thousands of years—but it’s current political form started with the declaration of the People’s Republic. Oh, and China? Great Wall of China. The Terracotta Army. Ming Dynasty art and Ceramics. Beautiful films by Wong Kar-wai.

People will often talk about the fact that China is the most populous country in the world (over 1.3 billion people…) but we should also remember that it’s the world’s third largest country in area—behind Russia and Canada. I’m sure that those of us who play trivial pursuit or stare at maps a lot already know that, but other than knowing “oh yeah, Russia’s the biggest” there are probably others who would have a bit of trouble ranking the top five (the next two are USA and Brazil… I admit, without checking I would have put Australia in at five. Let’s call it blind affection.) It’s not all the hustle and bustle of the eastern coastline, either. There’s the Gobi desert, the forest steppes, as well as subtropical forests and the Himalayas. There’s a lot going on.

And, you know, Marco Polo went to China… (Though there are certainly scholars out there that assert he never made it to China. I will leave the debate up to more learned people, and go with the stories of my childhood on this one. Happy, as always, to be proven wrong.)

As for the People’s Republic of China… well, forget all the dynasties. It’s Mao Zedong, the Great Leap Forward, the Cultural Revolution… There’s a lot I wouldn’t have wanted to live through, even if it did eventually lead to the cessation of such things as foot-binding (though there are still women living who have bound feet… incidentally, the story of Cinderella originates in China, with the tradition of foot-binding. It is a story about fitting a tiny shoe to prove nobility…) So, the Great Leap Forward took on the model of the Five-Year Plan. The first step? Well, part of it was increase the production of steel, while also doubling agricultural production. This ran into trouble pretty quickly. I mean, peasants weren’t really equipped to make steel, authorities were misreporting the production numbers, and while they were making low-quality steel—much of which couldn’t be used—they weren’t tending to many other things. So, there was a famine—which Mao Zedong wanted to hide from the world to save face, so he exported much of the grain that was still being produced. Millions died. And the Cultural Revolution? Abolish the old. That is: the Old Customs, the Old Culture, Old Habits and Old Ideas. Okay. What next?

After Mao’s death the economy transitioned to a mixed economy with an increasingly open market. But democratic freedoms remained—and still remain for many—elusive. 4 June 1989. Tiananmen Square. The People’s Liberation Army is ordered to fire on the people. Some of the images from Tiananmen are unforgettable—in particular, a man, standing in front of a tank. The world reacted, condemning China for its actions.

And yes, these days China is still considered to be one of the countries with the least press freedom. It’s believed that human rights violations are widespread. And China is head of the class when it comes to the number of executions. There are environmental concerns too. But you know, a lot of what I’ve written here is about the government. The events of the twentieth century are a tiny portion of the story.

Today’s poem is by Che Qianzi. It comes from Language for a New Century. Have I bullied you into buying this volume enough yet? I was sitting by the Canal in Washington DC the other day, reading it…

Sentences


1: A spire in the north. A spire in the south. In the south a nail
 was pulled out.

2: A half moon, two earths, one earth, very soft when stepped on,
 very soft shyster.

3: The gods appear to have freckled faces; the masses’ point of view;
 the rubble creeps over the branches; you are going to hunt birds.

4: A box that cannot keep secrets, darkness and Jiangsu Province,
 will be reduced to a leaky cage. In the cage there is nothing,
 the background contains it.

5: A water drop too is curved.

6: Lace words on the cuff, Tailor Song threads the eye of the needle.
 Shrimp heads twisted off their bodies.

7: Tadpoles drifting between commas, differentiated by their tails, were
 finally expelled from the fictitious revolutionary troop. Transformed
 into iron-skin green frogs, with the press of a button they jump
 without stop, without stop.

8: One sentence is no longer than one character. The character gets a big
 head. The character becomes a big star. A spire. Ursa Major
 hammering bright the nails in the north. 

9: One sentence circled three times around one character, circling
 the fourth time it broke.

—Che Qianzi
translated by Jeffrey Twitchell-Waas and Yang Liping
from Language for a New Century

Botswana

2008-09-30T07:00:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-24T07:00:00.001-07:00

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

2008-09-24T07:00:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-23T10:34:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-22T07:00:00.002-07:00

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

2008-09-22T07:00:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-21T07:00:00.002-07:00

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

2008-09-21T07:00:00.001-07:00

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

2008-09-21T07:00:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-19T07:00:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-18T07:00:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-16T07:00:00.001-07:00

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

2008-09-16T07:00:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-15T07:00:00.004-07:00

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

2008-09-15T07:00:00.003-07:00

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

2008-09-15T07:00:00.002-07:00

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

2008-09-15T07:00:00.001-07:00

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 doesnt 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

2008-09-15T07:00:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-10T07:00:00.000-07:00

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.’

Easter Island

2008-09-09T07:00:00.002-07:00

Tiny, remote Easter Island. Population? Under 4000. Small for a country that seems so famous to me—it’s the Moai statues scattered around the island. Who could forget them? And this entry is a strange one to me—on 9 September Easter Island takes the day off. What’s the anniversary? Well, it’s Policarpo Toro Day—or Annexation Day. In 1888 Easter Island was annexed to Chile. It’s mainly strange because, while there are plenty of other territories that are still under annexation, it’s the only Annexation Day I’ve come across. Most of the island is part of the Rapa Nui National Park, a world heritage site. Oh, and while annexed to Chile, the Rapanui people were confined to a settlement while the Williamson-Balfour Company rented the rest of the island for a sheep farm until 1953, and the Rapanui weren’t made Chilean citizens until 1966.

The name Easter Island comes via the first European explorer—Jacob Roggeveen (yes, in case the name didn’t tip you off, he is Dutch) came upon the island on Easter Sunday in 1722. Polynesians (and they are still currently more than half the population) currently call the island Rapa Nui or Big Rapa—there is debate about the islands “original” name. The suggestion I like? Mata-ki-Te-rangi, which translates as “Eyes that talk to the sky.”

And yes, when I opened with isolated, I mean isolated. Thousands of kilometres from Chile—and thousands of kilometres from Pitcairn island. When you’re measuring closeness to something by Pitcairn, we’re talking remote. But for a remote island its been through a lot—famines, civil war, eco-crisis… In the 19th century Peruvian slave raiders came and abducted people, violently. When some managed to escape Peru and come home, they brought smallpox. Clan wars didn’t help out. Nor did the first Christian missionary—to round out the smallpox from Peru, Eugène Eyraud brought tuberculosis with him.

And the Moai? Well I read that it would have taken a team of half a dozen men about a year to complete one. There are 887 known moais… That’s a lot of manpower. When Europeans first visited—and recorded what they saw—the statues were facing inland, over their clan lands—when clan wars erupted, most of the statues were cast down. Some have been re-erected in the last century.

I should also mention that annexation day isn’t the most important celebration of Easter Island’s culture: there is an annual cultural festival known as Tapati that began in 1975 which takes place for a few weeks around February.

Given my pause over the holiday in memory of annexation, I suppose it is a little strange that I have chosen a poem by the Chilean poet Pablo Neruda—and yet, I would have had trouble choosing another poem. I found it online here.

The Separate Rose  (Easter Island, 1973) 

II: THE MEN
The truth of my prologue is this: Down with sleazy romanticists!
with experts in the ineffable!
I’m just like the others: the Colombian lady-professor,
the Philadelphian Rotarian, the drummer
from Paysandú who cashed in a bundle
to get here. In a mishmash of languages, by dissimilar routes we all come upon: Silence.

VII: THE ISLAND
When the colossuses multiplied,
walked upright into their own,
peopled the island with stone noses
and lived to beget their descendants: children
of lava and wind, grandsons
of ashes and air, great footsteps
were heard in the island:
the hands of the wind,
the criminal cyclone,
Oceania’s persistency
never worked with such fury.

The tremendous, pure heads, 
long in the neck and lugubrious, 
with jawbones of giants, erect
 in the pride of their solitude - 
those presences, 
preoccupied, 
arrogant presences.

O lone, pensive dignitaries –
 who would ever presume, who would dare to come close
 with their questions, or challenge 
those questioning images?

They are the spawn of those askers 
who exceeded the narrow constraints
 of the island, moved out, from its minimal waist
 towards the whole of an ocean –
to the human beginnings of things, and their absences.

Some of the bodies will never assume their full stature,  
their arms shapelessly locked 
into craters, asleep:
 bedded down in calcareous rose,
 never lifting their eyes to the sea,  
sleeping the leviathan’s horizontal sleep,  
stone larvae of mystery,  
they lie now as when flung by the wind when it fled from that country 
and the breed of the children of lava was over.

—Pablo Neruda
translated from the Spanish by Bill Belitt

Tajikistan

2008-09-09T07:00:00.001-07:00

It’s that middle part of the map that people forget. You have some idea of Russian culture, and perhaps some idea of Irani, Pakistani... maybe even Afghani. But you look at the former SSRs and realise, you don’t really know much about them—you don’t, for instance, know much about the 7 million or so Tajik people of Tajikistan, and that the Tajik language is a modern variety of Persian. But this is a area that has a long history—it’s been inhabited continuously for around 6000 years. In 875 CE the Samanid Empire was established here. More recently, as the USSR broke up, Tajikistan declared its independence on 9 September 1991.

As well as Persian history, there’s Scythian history, contact with the Han Dynasty of China in the second century BCE, the introduction of Islam by Arabic people in the seventh century CE, the presence of the Mongols, and to jump back a little, perhaps most fascinating of all to me, even a small community of Jews who were displaced from the Middle East after the Babylonian capitivity found their way to the Tajik region around 600 BCE. Now that’s a diverse history.

And then there was Russia—the Russian Empire spread to Central Asia in the 19th century, and when Imperial Russia came to an end, the Central Asian basmachi, local guerrillas, failed to gain independence from the Bolsheviks. Unfortunately this led to the destruction of mosques and villages, and the persecution of Muslims, Jews and Christians. Many Bukharian Jews emigrated during the Soviet era, and a lot settled in the United States (particularly New York City), re-establishing their communities in a new country.

Independence hasn’t been smooth sailing—first, the country fell straight into civil war, with factions based on clan loyalties. There have been allegations of ethnic cleansing. A ceasefire was reached in 1997, with elections held peacefully in 1999—but while these elections were peaceful, the opposition also claims they were unfair. The most recent election was boycotted by many opposition parties. These days Russian, American, Indian and French troops are stationed in the country, while borders Afghanistan.

Something extra nice about the country? Poetry is a really important part of their culture. I am always heartened to hear that a place values its poets. And yes, I have a poem for you, by Bozor Sobir. Once again it comes from Language for a New Century.

Letters

I opened your letters
And I have them up to the air,
That they might become spring clouds,
That letters of memories
Might weep over the hills,
That they might weep springs and rivers.
That the letters might weep over us.

Last night I told a story
Of you to the wild wind.
In memory of you I recited from memory
A verse to the streams,
That the water might bear it away
And tell it to the rivers,
That the wind might bear it away
And sing it to the plains.

Last night under the rain
I walked road by road in my thoughts.
Your tresses strand by strand
In my thoughts I walked, braiding strands.
The kisses that had not been planted on your lips
—Along, all along the road,
Along the edge, the edge of the stream—
I walked, planting them in the ground.
So that, ever following in my footsteps
—Along, all along the road,
On the edge, the edge of the stream—
Kisses might grow like daisies,
Kisses might grow like wild mint.

Last night it rained and rained.
The water was too much for the river to hold.
Last night my loneliness
Was too much for me alone to hold….

Last night the April rain
Washed the footprints from the ground.
The wound in my heart grew worse,
Because it washed away the imprint of your foot.
Last night I wandered the streets in vain,
Like a hunter who has lost the trail I searched….

Last night the world was all water,
The sky was refreshed,
The ground was refreshed,
But I, with your name on my lips,
All alone like the parched land
I burned up under the rain.

—Bozor Sobir
translated from the Tajik by Judith M. Wilks
from Language for a New Century

North Korea

2008-09-09T07:00:00.000-07:00

Back in the day I watched a lot of Buffy the Vampire Slayer (and by back in the day I mean… not very long ago… and I would still watch a lot of it if I had a television) somehow when I think of North Korea I think of the country that for a long time in the last decade everyone thought of as the “big bad.” Things have changed a little there, but it’s still a dictatorship, with a huge amount of government control. At least, though, UN inspectors were able to verify the shutdown of nuclear facilities last year—I’m a fan of denuclearisation. I just wish there were more of it. Many human rights organizations assert that North Korea has one of the worst human rights records out there. As well as the extreme curtailment of political and economic freedom, there are large prison and detention camps reported, with concerns over the use of torture. That said—it’s hard to know exactly what’s going on in such a closed country. Despite all this, yes I am marking North Korea’s Independence Day, the anniversary of their formal declaration of independence in 1948. Oh, and please don’t think I’m trying to trivialise anything by starting with Buffy.

So we remember the division of Korea, right? When the Japanese left after World War II the Soviet Union took control of the region north of the 38th parallel while the United States took control of the south? The makings of a classic standoff. When the USSR and the US withdrew their troops, the advent of border skirmishes led to the Korean War. For those fuzzy on the details—I’m guessing a lot of younger readers are, since I know that I grew up hearing a lot more about Vietnam than about Korea—the war officially lasted just over three years—from June 1950 to July 1953. Since the signing of the Korean War Armistice Agreement the Korean Demilitarized Zone, also know as the DMZ, has separated the two Koreas.

These days, yes you may be able to visit North Korea. If you can get a visa, expect to be assigned a permanent guide to ensure you get the right view of the country.

But there are still poets—there are poets everywhere, and poetry seeps out of places, gets itself heard. By the few that are listening for the voices of poetic witness. Today’s poem comes from the anthology Language for a New Century. I know I have praised this anthology before, but I continue to be amazed by the diverse range of poets and nationalities that have been drawn together in this book. This poem is by Hong Yun-Suk.

Ways of Living 4

You have to wait.
At the crossroads’ red traffic light,
you have to stop going along, pause for breath,
look up for once at the forgotten sky,
hoist up and fasten the slipping pack.
A scrap of pink cloud on a remote mountainside,
inky darkness, on the corner you turn,
on the road left ahead cold rain pouring down
we are all being soaked as we pass through this age
for see, this is destiny’s winter
and no one can escape from this rain.
Frozen, we rub one another’s flesh,
we sparingly share and kindle the remaining fire.
In the darkness our roots twine together.

—Hong Yun-Suk
translated from the Korean by Brother Anthony of Taizé
from Language for a New Century

Andorra

2008-09-08T07:00:00.001-07:00

I love these tiny slivers of countries—especially in Europe I tend to wonder how they survived. When I was searching around for a text for today I stumbled across an early twentieth century travel text (it had “tramping” in the title!) that talked about how mountainous the region around Andorra is, and how that explains its continued separation. Isolated until the world became this small place—and now tourism and tax haven status make it prosper. And today they Andorran people celebrate their national day—Our Lady of Meritxell Day—this day has been a national celebration since 1730. Wondering about Our Lady of Meritxell? It’s a Roman Catholic Andorran statue of an apparition of the Virgin Mary. Whoa, that’s a mouthful if you say it while you type it. Our Lady of Meritxell is the patron saint of Andorra—unfortunately the original statue was destroyed when the chapel that housed it burned on September 8 and 9 in 1972. Still, on this day many Andorrans make a pilgrimage to the shrine of the Virgin of Meritxell.

I love these little legends. The story of Our Lady of Meritxell goes that in the late 1100s a wild rose was found in bloom, out of season (January… in the mountains I suppose there should have been snow on the ground) and at the base of it the statue was found. It was taken to the Canillo church, but the next day it was found back under the wild rose. The statue got taken this time to the church of Encamp—but again it came back to the wild rose. The villagers then decided to build a chapel on that spot, and I imagine it is the holiest spot in Andorra. I say this because there is an almost identical story in Costa Rica, about the Black Virgin—there wasn’t a rose, but the same story of the disappearing/reappearing in the original place statue is told there, and the same types of stories crop up in other cultures. Given the importance of this patron saint to such a small country, it’s not surprising that Meritxell is a common name for Andorran women. Another story about Our Lady of Meritxell is that she was an abused princess—one of those wicked stepmothers who tried to kill her. Her new husband led a rebellion against her father and wicked stepmother, and the two became well loved.

Oh, and the Virgin of Meritxell takes care of her people well—Andorrans currently have the highest life expectancy in the world.

The Andorran people, as tradition has it, helped Charlemagne fighting the Moors—he granted them a charter, and then the territory passed hands a few times before a paréage (a new word for me—it was a feudal treaty recognising joint sovereignty in Medieval France. Feel educated? Good) was signed in 1278. This determined the principality’s territory. Official the principality is established as having two co-princes—the head of the French state and the Bishop of Urgell. So, yes, Nicolas Sarkozy is not just the French president and husband of Carla Bruni—he is also co-prince of Andorra, along with Joan Enric Vives Sicília. Oh, and the government is headed by the Prime Minister Albert Pintat Santolária

Something interesting? During World War I Andorra declared war on Germany, though it didn’t do any actual fighting. The Versaille Peace Treaty didn’t include Andorra, so officially it was in a state of belligerency until 1957. The principality was neutral in World War II, and became part of a smuggling route from Vichy France to Spain. Smugglers! They’re as good as pirates!

I found the names of quite a few Andorran poets, but had trouble finding poems that had been translated. I also found out that the poet Philip Levine wrote a poem called “Andorra”, but instead of offering that I’m posting an Andorran children’s song in the Catalan (the language spoken in the country) and in English translation. I found it online here.

Cradle Dance

I el nen es petit
tot mig adormit
sa mare s'el mire.

No el deixa mai sol
i a dins del bressol
ditxos en suspire.

El nen ja n'es gran,
la mare plorant,
l'en diu cada dia.

No en vaiguis de nit
i surt del brogit
treballa, estudia.

Veient-lo perdut,
i tot desmaiat
perque no bas vingut
aqui al meu costat.

Li en bese la cara,
li en bese la front,
petons d'una mare,
la mes gran del mon.

*

The small child
Is half asleep
His mother watches him.

She never leaves him alone
And inside the cradle
Joyful he sighs.

The child has grown,
The mother, crying,
Every day tells him:

Never walk alone
And keep far from trouble,
Work hard, study hard.

Seeing him lost
And fainting:
Why didn't you come
To me, by my side?

She kisses his face,
She kisses his forehead,
Kisses from a mother
The greatest in the world.

Macedonia

2008-09-08T07:00:00.000-07:00

I feel like the Republic of Macedonia is Balkan state that gets forgotten a little—but there it is, on the Balkan peninsula, surrounded by Serbia, Albania, Kosovo, Greece and Bulgaria. I always knew that it was next to Greece, but until the last year or so (what with some seriously intense map-studying since I put a world map next to my bed) I couldn’t have reliably named the other countries it bordered. The capital is Skopje—which I have to admit I couldn’t have told you yesterday. This despite the fact that it is an ancient region, and we’ve all heard about the victories of that famous Macedonian, Alexander the Great. (It’s important to note that there is a greater Macedonian region, and that there is a region of Greece also known as Macedonia. This has, in fact, slowed down the process of the two countries reaching an agreement as to what name Greece will recognise the Republic of Macedonia under. Philip II, Alexander’s father, founded the city of Heraclea Lyncestis in 336 BCE, near what is the modern Macedonian city of Bitola. The official name of the country is still under dispute—the UN refers to it as “the former Yugoslav republic of Macedonia.”) So now it’s Independence Day, celebrating the day Macedonia declared its separation from Yugoslavia in 1991—independence was officially recognised fifteen years ago, in 1993.

Obviously Alexander the Great’s period of, well, greatness, was quite a while ago. The region was under Byzantine control for a while, and when that started to fall apart the Slavic tribes moved in, while some pre-Slavic inhabitants moved to fortified cities in Greece, or hid out in the mountains. The First Bulgarian Empire (did you know about Bulgarian empires? Or that there was more than one?) covered the area that is modern-day Macedonia by around 850 CE.

Then there were the Ottomans. And yes, they parked a good long while—movements to create an autonomous Macedonia began in the late 19th century. In the years just prior to World War I there were the two Balkan wars of 1912 and 1913—the Ottoman Empire dissolved around now, and the territories were carved up. What is now Macedonia was known as Southern Serbia, and when the Kingdom of Yugoslavia came into being, Macedonia was integrated into that.

During the Yugoslav wars in the 1990s, Macedonia managed to remain at peace, making a few minor changes to its border to resolve problems. Then the Kosovo war came along, and Macedonia was flooded with ethnic Albanian refugees—this had a destablising effect. These days things are much better.

And as we’re getting to that stage where I start to talk about poetry, I should mentioned the internation poetry festival known as the Struga Poetry Evenings—it seems everyone who’s anyone has been there since it started in 1962. Brodsky, Neruda, Montale, Heaney, Hughes, Senghor… and the list goes on and on.

Today’s poem is by Zoran Ančevski and comes from New European Poets.

What’s Slouching

What’s slouching like stagnant air
through these Balkan corridors?
Eroded erudites,
plague-ridden radicals,
communists, nationalists,
bloodthirsty ecologists
with milk teeth,
descending form the national parks
with conserved views,
reserved
for outbursts of tribal passion,
Freudian complexes of minimal difference,
for random reservists
and condoms of all different colors too.

Whatever is slouching
will never teach Bethlehem or Jerusalem
nor Mecca or Medina
but hurrying and scurrying
down different European corridors
in red crescent or red cross ambulances
will enter a wilderness of mirrors,

in Versailles,
where terrible tailors
cut out new corridors
and a well-turned verse
is reversed to a stammer.

—Zoran Ančevski
from New European Poets
translated from the Macedonian by Graham W Reid, Peggy Reid and the author

Brazil

2008-09-07T07:00:00.000-07:00

I always wonder how to deal with enormous countries—and Brazil is an enormous country, being the fifth largest by area and the fifth most populous. And it shares a border with nearly every South American country—it misses Ecuador and Chile. Plus, it’s the odd man out in Latin America: it was the Portuguese not the Spanish that carved out this enormous swathe of land. So let’s celebrate the independence that was declared for Brazil in 1822—though it took till 1825 for it to be recognised. And meanwhile, remember that while, when we think of Brazil we also think: Rio!, the capital is Brasília. And let’s all bless Pelé.

Among the native tribes, apparently there are as many as 67 different tribes still living today without contact with the outside world—in 2005 the Fundação Nacional do Índio reported only 40. Now the country is believed to have the largest population of uncontacted peoples in the world. I have been trying to figure out how I feel about this. In a way I think it’s wonderful for these tribes to go on uninterrupted—but at the same time the rest of us are doing such damage to the planet that I wonder how much it impinges on these tribes, and what we should be doing about it. And I don’t want to romanticise uncontacted tribes—I just hate to see what contact has done to indigenous peoples in some parts of the world. And yes, I of course see that contact could be beneficial as well as detrimental…

After staking their claim, it took a while for Portugal to really get interested in Brazil—other than as a supplier of brazilwood that is. When people started to settle permanently they also started the sugarcane industry. Rio—as in de Janeiro—was set up in 1567.

Brazil also became a temporary seat for the Portuguese court—since they were fleeing from Napoleon’s troops. When the Portuguese moved back to Lisbon the Brazilians started to think seriously about independence from the new United Kingdom of Portugal, Brazil and the Algarves. Dom Pedro became the first emperor of Brazil. When Dom Pedro stepped down his son was only five, and the country was administered by regents for nine years, until Pedro II became emporer. And he stay emperor for a long time. Don’t believe it? He was eventually deposed, via a Republican military coup, in 1889.

This wasn’t the last time Brazil saw military taking power—a military junta took power in 1930, with a dictatorial ruler staying until 1945. A break for a while, and then another military government after a coup d’état in 1964. This military government stayed in place until 1985. These days democracy has been re-established.

Ah, the Amazon rainforest. Pumas, jaguars, ocelots. Sloths. Hopefully they won’t disappear with all the development that’s been going on.

Today’s poem is by Carlos Drummon de Andrade—a well known Brazilian poet, though no means the only one. (Venture out. Find some more. I dare you.) This poem comes from The Vintage Book of Contemporary World Poetry and was translated from the Portuguese by Mark Strand—who is, of course, also a very fine poet.

Seven-Sided Poem

When I was born, one of the crooked
angels who live in shadow, said:
Carlos, go on! Be gauche in life.

The houses watch the men,
men who run after women.
If the afternoon had been blue,
there might have been less desire.

The trolley goes by full of legs:
white legs, black legs, yellow legs.
My God, why all the legs?
my heart asks. But my eyes
ask nothing at all.

The man behind the mustache
is serious, simple, and strong.
He hardly ever speaks.
He has a few, choice friends,
the man behind the spectacle and the mustache.

My God, why hast Thou forsaken me
if Thou knew’st I was not God,
if Thou knew’st that I was weak?

Universe, vast universe,
if I had been named Eugene
that would not be what I mean
but it would go into verse
faster.

Universe, vast universe,
my heart is vaster.

I oughtn’t to tell you,
but this moon
and this brandy
play the devil with one’s emotions.

—Carlos Drummond de Andrade
from The Vintage Book of Contemporary World Poetry
translated from the Portuguese by Mark Strand

Swaziland

2008-09-06T07:00:00.000-07:00

Ah Swaziland—mostly surrounded by South Africa, but also bordering Mozambique. Today we’re celebrating Swaziland’s Independence Day—locally known as Somhlolo Day. Independence from the United Kingdom arrived on this day in 1968. Unfortunately, not long after this—in 1973—a State of Emergency was declared, and while the government claims it has been lifted, political movements are still suppressed.

It’s an ancient country—by which I meant that there are artefacts indicating human presences for tens of thousands of years, with prehistoric rock paintings dating from around 25,000 BCE, but also evidence of very early human existence in the region—as in well over 100,000 years. More recently, this is another country that experienced a large influx of Bantu peoples—when the Ngwane people couldn’t match growing Zulu strength they moved north into what is now Swaziland, establishing what became the Swazi nation.

The British first became involved in the 19th century after Mswati II requested help from the British authorities in South Africa—trying to stem the tide of Zulu raids into Swaziland. after Mswati’s death the people made agreements with Britain and South African, and then the South African Republic established colonial rule over the country, over the objections of Swazi royalty. South Africa withdrew with the onset of the Boer War, but only a few years later the British came along and proclaimed their rule, separating Swaziland from the Transvaal Colony in 1906.

Sixty years later the United Kingdom were open to discussion on a new Swazi constitution, resulting in independence two years later. In 1973 King Sobhuza repealed the new constitution, dissolved parliament, outlawed political activity and trade unions. In 1979 a new parliament was brought about. With a new monarch, new disputes cropped up, and in 1984 the prime minister was replaced, before the Queen Regent was herself replaced. This struggle between pro-democracy voices and the monarchy has continued in the ensuing decades.

With this restriction of political activity, it’s not surprising then that Swaziland is 138th in the world in terms of the Press Freedom Index.

Finding a poem from Swaziland proved a challenge—again it’s a matter of translation. While English is an official language, SiSwati is dominant. The piece below is actually a fragment of a poem on a warrior king. I believe it is from an oral tradition—I found it online here.

Fragment on warrior king:
They are calling you, they are giving you a message/
King of the inner circle!
They are not calling you for nothing,
They are calling you to a war of nations, stabbing and killing.

San Marino

2008-09-03T07:00:00.001-07:00

You remember San Marino, right? That tiny enclave in Italy’s Apennine mountains? And it’s not just San Marino—it’s the Most Serene Republic of San Marino. I’m sure being a Most Serene Republic must be lovely. 3 September is Foundation Day in this neck of the woods. Foundation Day? San Marino says it’s the oldest constitutional republic in the world, as its Foundation Day celebrates the beginnings of the republic in 301. The founder? Marinus of Rab, a Christian stonemason fleeing persecution in Rimini. Oh, and the constitution—from 1600—is the oldest written constitution still in effect. Impressive stuff.

With its out-of-the-way location—not to mention a history of poverty—the country has pretty well succeeded in remaining independence (a few interruptions, yes)—and its independence was recognised by the papacy in 1631. And as an independent republic, San Marino housed refugees in the 19th century—people in danger of persecution because they supported Italian unification found a safe haven here as the unification process moved forward. When unification took place, Giuseppe Garibaldi, the Italian national hero, respected San Marino’s wish to remain separate from the newly unified country that surrounded the enclave. Also impressive? Napoleon III refused to take the country because he declared it “a model republic.”

And did you know that Abraham Lincoln was an honorary citizen of San Marino? He was evidently pleased by it, writing that “government founded on republican principles is capable of being so administered as to be secure and enduring.” And so it has been.

I’m so interested to learn that San Marino has multiple heads of state and frequent elections—this comes from customs of the Roman Republic. Another interesting fact? The Sammarinese army still has a Crossbow Corps. (These days, of course, it’s ceremonial and consists of 80 volunteers.) And from the sublime to the ridiculous—San Marino entered Eurovision for the first time this year.

I’d just like to say, too, that while San Marino declared war on Austro-Hungary in World War I, it remained neutral in World War II—being a tiny country surrounded entirely by Italy it was the best it could do.

How tiny? These days the population is around 30,000. The current Captains Regent are Federico Pedini Amati and Rosa Zafferani. The patron saint is St. Agatha, who is also the patron saint of: Sicily, bellfounders, breast cancer (she had her breasts cut off as one of the tortures endured for her faith) bakers, fire, jewellers, martyrs, natural disasters, nurses, rape victims, single laywomen, sterility, torture victims and wetnurses.

I had trouble tracking down a Sammarinese poem—I’m certain that there are poems, but I’m guessing they are not easily accessible based on a reasonably exhaustive search over the past few months. Something I did find online here that interested me was an excerpt from a 1769 travel guide. I thought you might enjoy it.

excerpt from a 1769 travel guide

The road from La Catolica to Pezaro skirts the territories of this small republic, concerning the government of which we referred ourselves to the description given of it by Mr. Addison, who went in person to get a thorough knowledge of it. This little state was on the point of losing its liberty, by cardinal Alberoni's enterprise against it, during his legation in Romania (* about 1750). The management and execution of this project would do honour to the cardinal's bravery, had it been against a people, whom a slender regard to the Roman purple would not have restrained from offering at a defence. The cardinal's red vestment, and a Te deum, in which he was seized with a panic, gave a sanction to this enterprize: Benedict XIV, disowned it, yet he kept the original charters of this republic, the cardinal having purloined them; and they were lodged in the Vatican Archivio.

I knew at Rome a petty Curial, or limb of the law, born at San Marino, who had sacrificed his small fortune purely to recover the most essential of those charters, which accordingly he had got safely conveyed back among the records of his country. I likewise frequently saw at Rome, among the Minims of la Trinita di monte, another member of the same republic, the very counter-part of Rabelais's Parnurgus, a complete master of the Latin and Greek, and even of the vulgar Greek; well versed in geometry, chymistry, and especially botany; he had travelled over the greatest part of Asia, even as far as the kingdom of Thibet, always footing it, and without equipage or so much as money. He lived at Rome from hand to mouth, placing all happiness in liberty and chearfulness, which he looked upon as incompatible with dependance. The first time I saw him was in the laboratory of la Trinita di monte , where, with all the vehemence of pulpit elocution, he was holding forth, facing the apothecary of the convent, who, according to the constitution of those places, was one of the society, on miracles and conversions, the marvellous of which increasing in a climax, at length set the pious brother a weeping and sobbing most cordially. In the opinion of this odd creature, the world afforded nothing comparable to ancient Rome, except his dear republic of St. Marino: it was indeed the only thing he could speak of with any seriousness. He proposed, after a few more perambulations, to go and end his days in his Ithaca, and devote his abilities and discoveries in promoting its happiness.

Tokelau

2008-09-03T07:00:00.000-07:00

I’m guessing you don’t think about Tokelau very often—a territory of New Zealand in the South Pacific that consists of three coral atolls with a population of under 1500 people—and it looks like the population is declining. But you know it doesn’t take many people living in a small place for a few generations to develop a distinctive culture. The name Tokelau means “north wind”—previously the islands were called the Union Islands or Union Group. They became the Tokelau Islands in 1946, which was shortened to Tokelau in 1976. On 3 September this little corner of the world celebrates Tokehaga Day.

The islands were settled about 1000 years ago—most likely people arrived from Samoa, the Cook Islnads and Tuvalu.

I’m always surprised to find out these small islands in the South Pacific were (officially…) discovered earlier than Australia—while Captain Cook came to Botany Bay in 1788 (as pretty much any Australian schoolchild will tell you) Commodore John Byron made it to Atafu in 1765. And, hey, as well as getting discovered earlier, Tokelau didn’t have the waves and waves of massacres in order to be used as a penal colony. Bonus! Also, it seems like the window of being preached at by missionaries was relatively shortlived. On the downside, Peruvian slave traders came in 1863 and took nearly all of the able-bodied men to work as labourers—“nearly all” amounted to 253. Unfortunately they mostly died of dysentery and smallpox, and so hardly any returned home.

New Zealand law doesn’t really apply often—only specific enactments are made. The local enact their own laws, and with such a small population serious crime is rare, and there’re not prisons. Anyone who does act up will be publicly rebuked, fined or made to work—community service lives! These days, too, a lot of Tokelauans live in New Zealand, sending money to their families at home.

And, yes, even with less than 1500 inhabitants, there are still poets, or Pulotus—composers, or makers of songs. Today’s is by Ihaia, and it comes from Allan Thomas and Ineleo Tuia’s “Profile of a Composer: Ihaia Pulla, a Pulotu of the Tokelau Islands.” I found it online here.

Tiga te pouli

Tiga te pouli kautatago tiga te agi o te timu-a-toga
Kako au e fitoi atu ke pa atu kia te koe
Agi mai te laki momoka mai ma ua
Oi aue toku tino kua tatapa I te makalilia

However dark the night, however strong the timu-a-toga wind
I will still try to reach you.
The laki wind is coming, the rain is falling
And my body is shaking with the cold.

—Ihaia Puka

Vietnam

2008-09-02T07:00:00.001-07:00

Ah, Vietnam. Let’s think about Vietnam, as 2 September is the National Day of the Vietnamese people—on 2 September 1945 they gained independence from Japan… obviously due to Japanese occupation of the country during World War I, with the Japenese War in the Pacific. They invaded Vietnam in 1941, so their stay was comparatively shortlived. There were a few other independences to be won in the history of the country. After all, it was under Chinese control for a thousand years before it became a nation-state in the 10th century. There was also the period of French colonialism—I’m still surprised when I hear “Indochina,” but then I’m young, and grew up hearing about Vietnam. And we all know about the blundering of the Vietnam War. Historically the country has also had quite a few names—but Việt Nam has been used for centuries.

If you visit Hanoi you can visit the body of Ho Chi Minh. Along the way, you can drink excellent coffee, eat amazing food, wander around the Old Hanoi for days and ride on the back of motorbikes (without a helmet). I was there a few years ago (I think, now, that every member of my family has been to Hanoi) and I loved riding around on motorbikes in the morning, and then wandering around in the afternoon monsoonal rain. I think it was the film Vertical Ray of the Sun that ensured my love of the monsoon.

When I was in Central America recently I met an amazing fellow who had worked as a gamekeeper in South Africa for years and years—he was about to move to Vietnam to help set up marine national parks. The country has a very high level of biodiversity—recently it was reported that a certain giant soft-shell turtle that everyone thought was extinct was found in northern Vietnam. It’s a beautiful country.

On the downside, there are concerns about freedom—in particular, Vietnam does badly in the Worldwide Press Freedom Index. All media in the country has to be sponsored by a Communist Party organization and registered with the government—still, some manage to have less government control than others.

Today’s poem from Vietnam is by Nguyễn Duy and comes from Language for a New Century.

The Father

In this place there are so many
who spent half their life in Viet Bac, the other half among the Truong Son
mountains,
men and women who once ate roots, bamboo shoots for meals
and now make do with taro leaves and wild tendrils.

Their great hopes have turned their skulls white,
their native villages so far away now, like distant seasons.
A lifetime working in sun and rain,
a lifetime walking, and they’ve yet to reach home.

All along the far horizon, families drift off the sleep.
A father old as a thousand hills, a mother old as a hundred rivers.
When the winds come, they’ll have to arc and circles, climb over
the great bends and twists of the forests to get to this place.

— Nguyễn Duy
translated from Vietnamese by Nguyễn Bá Chung and Kevin Bowen
from Language for a New Century

Tibet

2008-09-02T07:00:00.000-07:00

It was heartening to see the number of protests surrounding this year’s Olympic torch race, as many people used this as a way of protesting China’s treatment of Tibet. I always like to see get involved in political causes - especially human rights issues. I feel that it gets talked about so much that in a lot of the Western world people do still think of it as a separate country—but we know that’s not true in practice, and the Dalai Lama has been in exile for decades. Though it is not a holiday in Tibet—obviously that is not allowed—the Tibetan exile community observe 2 September as Tibetan Democracy Day. There’s so much debate about Tibet that matters like size and population can’t be settled.

I was rewatching Twin Peaks recently, and had forgotten Agent Cooper’s speech about how the plight of the Tibetan people moves him. In a way, it’s so out of left field (compared with, say, Scorsese’s Kundun) that, at that point when everyone wanted to know who killed Laura Palmer, I hope it made people think about that little area of the world that didn’t seem to be as much in the public eye in 1990 as it is now.

After the outside world had come to Tibet (bringing with them, for instance, the first potatoes in the country) in the 1850s Tibet shut its borders to outsiders. The British sent in people in disguise to secretly map the area, and there are stories of various people disguising themselves as pilgrims.

In 1913 the country officially issued a proclamation of its independence. It was 37 years later that China invaded Tibet, leading to the Dalai Lama’s departure in 1959.

One of the things that interests me is that while the Dalai Lama named Gedhum Choekyi Nyima as the 11th Panchen Lama, the People’s Republic of China named a different child—Gyancain Norbu. Tibetans in exile refer to him as the Panchen Zuma, or fake Panchen Lama. I suppose I find it strange that the PRC would name someone at all.

Pico Iyer has written a number of essays on Tibet. He is wonderful.

Today’s poem comes from Language for a New Century and is by Tsering Wangmo Dhompa.

One more say


Think on this when prayers fall like thick paint on dry asphalt.

Think on this when the face is fading.

Think on this and be decisive in your motions. The breathing. The
utterance.

No Eastern star leading conch shells and a rainbow at dusk. Those
who must believe, so.

Who dares to question the accuracy of a direction when the journey
was not theirs.

The moment of birth. Before the father extended his arm toward
the mother.

Here is a location. Here it is scattering like mustard seeds.

—Tsering Wangmo Dhompa
from Language for a New Century

Uzbekistan

2008-09-01T07:00:00.001-07:00

When I was young I had a crush on one of my oldest brother’s friends—a lovely guy who unaccountably became… well… an accountant. Not long after starting his working life he got an offer to work in one of the overseas offices for the company employing him. The next thing I knew he had moved to Tashkent in Uzbekistan. So now that I’m thinking about the 1 September celebration of Uzbeki independence, celebrating the 1991 declaration of independence from the then-USSR, I can’t help but think of my brother’s friend too. Oh, and because I like those odd facts, and I don’t see any pirates in the history (not surprisingly, since its one of only two doubly landlocked countries in the world) I thought you might like to know that Uzbekistan is the world’s second largest exporter of cotton. It’s also the only Central Asian country to border all the other Central Asian countries.

I expect you know that Alexander the Great conquered the area. What you may not know is that he married Roxana, daughter of a Bactrian chieftain—and Bactria is a region of greater Iran that covers some Uzbeki territory too. And Tamerlane—the man who overpowered the Mongols—was from the region. Not surprisingly he’s an Uzbeki national hero.

These days there are some concerns over human rights—and by some concern, I mean that human rights groups report widespread violation of human rights.

Another red flag is the environment—the Aral Sea, for instance, which is adjacent to Uzbekistan. While it was once the fourth largest inland sea, the resource has been misused for decades, and is now a fraction of what it once way—and there’s high salinity too. Where does your cotton come from?

While you’re thinking about that question, here’s a poem for you. “The Corpse of a Sufi” is by Eshqabil Shukur. Thanks, as so often, to New European Poets.

The Corpse of a Sufi

In a dark cave lives a snake,
A black wind nestles there,
The corpse of a Sufi lies flaming,
It has been thus for five hundred years.

The corpse of the Sufi each day
Speaks one piece of wisdom… the snake writes it
down in a book.
The truth lies five hundred years beyond.
Five hundred years hence tarries a lie.

Every day on the ceiling of the cave a spider
Easily weaves a shroud for the corpse.
The snake lies protecting the treasure,
Every day the wind tears up the shroud.

—Eshqabil Shukur
translated from Uzbek by William M. Dirks
from Language for a New Century

Slovakia

2008-09-01T07:00:00.000-07:00

I’m still really sad that I didn’t quite get to Slovakia when I went to Europe for the first (and so far only) time. I made it to the Czech Republic and met a wonderful girl in Poland who had made her way into Poland on foot, after a mixture of hiking and hitchhiking—she was on her way from Slovakia. And now that it’s Slovakia’s Constitution Day, I’m thinking about it again and wishing I could have made it… Some day I will.

I had no idea that around 500 years before the common era Celts settled in what is now Slovakia—they stayed for a long time, before the Slavic tribes started arriving about a thousand years later. Hungarians later annexed the territory, and the region became integrated into the Kingdom of Hungary. Well and good, but of course the Mongols were coming, and their invasion, combined with the famine that followed, resulted in huge population losses.

Another thing I didn’t know? Bratislava—which was known as Pressburg—was the capital of Hungary until 1848 when the capital moved to Budapest. The region didn’t have a good time under the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and so in 1918 it combined with Bohemia and Moravia to form Czechslovakia. I think I still hear people so Czechoslovakia as often as I hear the Czech Republic and Slovakia. In 1968 Soviet tanks arrived—obviously what is known as Prague Spring took place in, well, Prague, but as part of the same country at the time, Slovakia certainly felt the effect of Soviet occupation.

And of course when communism ended during the 1989 Velvet Revolution, Slovakia became a separate nation.

Feel journalistic? Slovakia has a great spot at number 3 on the Reporters Without Borders press freedom index.

Perhaps you merely feel poetic. Well, today’s poem is “Skin is a Wrapping of Bones” by Ivan Kolenič. It comes, once more, from New European Poets.

Skin is a Wrapping of Bones

Every day one verse.
Every morning one powerless lampoon
from sadness and icy grass, oxygen
in the roots of summer—how they sprout
from your bitten tongue. You keep
it red, well-hidden and perfectly
protected behind sharp teeth
which recollect blood. So what
I say is, “Skin is a wrapping for bones,
for veins, for the army of hurt…”
(you can do nothing about it) even if
you shelter your silky remembrance
in a glass jar of preserves.
So, not one stupidity—in the ashtray
my hair smolders, in the dark
someone horribly strange comes close to me.
Here endeth the blues—should I say more?

—Ivan Kolenič
from New European Poets
translated from the Slovak by Stefania Allen and James Sutherland-Smith

Kyrgyzstan

2008-08-31T07:00:00.002-07:00

So, 31 August and we have Independence day in Kyrgyzstan—you know the one. Landlocked, surrounded by Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan and China. Descended from nomadic tribes, tucked in the middle of ex-SSRs, I feel like Kyrgyzstan gets forgotten by most of the world. I could not have told you yesterday that Bishkek is the capital, though I could have pointed to the country on a map.

Historically the Kyrgyz people did pretty well for themselves in the first millennium or so of the common era, expanding their territory—but then the Mongols began to push them back into smaller spaces again.

Then came Russia—people who think of Kyrgyzstan at all most likely think of it in the same breath as Russia. The country was part of the Russian empire in the 19th century. In 1919 Soviet power was established, and in 1936 the country became the Kirghiz Soviet Socialist Republic. Obviously when the USSR broke apart, Kyrgyzstan was left to form an independent nation.

Because the populations around the area had been quite mobile before the establishment of firm borders, there is a Kyrgyz enclave in Uzbekistan, and a number of Uzbek enclaves in Kyrgyz. This has been the cause of ethnic tension at different points.

Oh, and the nomadic background of the Kyrgyz people continues as herding families still return to the high mountain pastures in summer.

Interestingly, the Kyrgyz language has been through a few alphabetic changes—at first it was written with the Arabic alphabet. In the early twentieth century this was changed to the Latin alphabet until the impact of the USSR kicked in with the change to Cyrillic.

Also, bride kidnapping still happens sometimes. As in, a man might tell his family he wants to marry, they pick out a girl and go kidnap her. It’s illegal though, and I don’t know how common it is. Still, when it does happen it’s rare that anyone does anything about it.

Today’s poem from Kyrgyzstan is by the Kyrgyz poet Suyunbay Eraliev, and comes from Language for a New Century.

Beginning

From the green meadows of Altai
I brought back a miraculous new wine
to the great summit of Tyan’-Shan’ya,
so that it might regenerate our self-esteem,
strengthen our people’s spirit
amid the devestation,
amid the battles,
amid our wanderings,
so that it might invigorate our spirit from year to year,
amid our legendary traditions.
In the firmament,
on the vaulted slopes
where flow the crystal waters,
in the villages so highly protected
by the endless stream of years gone by.
One could almost hear the strains of “Manas”
as time suddenly released the reins,
even the rain,
like the glance of an evil eye,
gave up its place to that weather.

—Suyunbay Eraliev
translated from the Russian by Yuri Vidov Karageorge
from Language for a New Century

Malaysia

2008-08-31T07:00:00.001-07:00

Malaysia is the first overseas country I ever travelled to (I don’t count my stopover in Singapore, where I sat in a chair at the airport for an hour, worried that I wouldn’t know when to board the plane.) I was eleven and travelled by myself, to go see my best friend whose family was living in Kuala Lumpur at the time. I’d caught a few planes by myself at that stage—in fact, had begun to see myself as something of an old hand—but was terrified of this process of changing planes in one country to get to another. I survived, and ate curry and bought a lot of knock-off t-shirts and plastic earrings. Hey, what can I say? I was shallow. Though it was also during that trip that I read Wuthering Heights for the first time—my first Brontë novel. I wish I could remember more of my trip now that it’s 31 August and we’re celebrating Malaysia’s “Hari Merdeka,” or Independence Day (Independence s from the United Kingdom, and came in 1957.)

My father still calls Malaysia “Malaya” reasonably often. Other people his age that I’ve met do too, which surprises me whenever I hear it. When I hear “Malaya” I think of World War II.

Malaysia has been inhabited for tens of thousands of years, and Ptolemy knew it. Or that’s what his map suggests—how else would he know to include it? From the beginning of the common era there’s been a fair bit of movement, as well as changing religious influences, with Hindu, Buddhism and Islam arriving in waves—there is evidence of the latter from the 14th century onwards.

Then of course there was the European influence, as Western explorers ventured further afield. First came Portugal in 1511, and then the Dutch in 1641. Britain was late in the game—1786, when Penang was leased to the British East India Company. Essentially the Malay archipelago ended up divided between Britain and the Netherlands, and Malaya (yes, it was still Malaya) was in the British zone.

Japan invaded the country during World War II—after this the local population were more keen for independence to arrive. When what was then Malaya merged with a few crown colonies on Borneo in 1963, Malaysia was born. (Singapore was initially part of Malaysia too, but separated from the nation in 1965.) It wasn’t all smooth sailing—as well as Singapore’s leavetaking, Indonesia and the Philippines caused some headaches.

While we’re celebrating Hari Merdeka, here is a poem to help the festivities along. “Language” by Baha Zain comes from Language for a New Century. Enjoy!

Language

How hard
to accommodate the word to the meaning
such trouble
to wrap decorum with language
the emotions of old bards;
a fish flashing in water
you already know its gender.

—Baha Zain
translated from Malay by Muhammad Haji Salleh
from Language for a New Century

Trinidad and Tobago

2008-08-31T07:00:00.000-07:00

I suppose most people don’t know, or don’t remember anymore, that I did a music degree, in addition to my BA, followed by my current studies for an MA (or two) in English. Back when I was studying music to my heart’s content, I was part of the conservatorium’s choir. Yes, there were the usual numbers—Mozart’s Requiem, of course, and Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. And, oddly, The Geographical Fugue. I loved this piece—it was a spoken work, and I still remember it. I was a little disappointed that it wasn’t Sprechstimme, but just spoken with varied dynamics, but it was one of the most fun pieces I’ve ever performed in. In four voices (you know, fugue-like) each choir section enters, and the rhythms of the piece all build from the rhythms of places and geographical features. The opening? A great roar of “TRINIDAD!”

And so, when I was looking at my list of independence days, I suddenly thought “TRINIDAD!” when I saw that, yes, 31 August is Independence Day in Trinidad and Tobago—Trinidad and Tobago being the two main islands of the nation. Tobago is really very small compared with Trinidad, but it’s important to not leave it out. We like inclusion.

Trinidad and Tobago? Well, they bring us both calypso and the limbo. Also—Trinidad? The earliest settled part of the Caribbean. As in, people arrived at least 7000 years ago. Tobago got its name because it’s shaped like a cigar—or that’s what the people naming it thought. The name Trinidad was given by Columbus—in a sacred mood he named it after the Holy Trinity.

Almost 100 years after the island was “discovered” by the European world, Sir Walter Raleigh went there. While this is significant because he attacked San José, I really just mentioned it because Raleigh is such a great character. I’d be pretty pleased if he’d dropped in on Australia. I’d imagine him laying his cloak on the ground on some dusty bush track.

So, the island was really in the control of the Spanish, with the Frenchman Roume de St. Laurent showing up and getting a Cédula de Población from Charles III of Spain, and free lands were being granted to any Catholics willing to swear allegiance to the Spanish king. A bunch of people showed up. In 1802 Trinidad went to the British, and a whole lot more settlers came from England. It did get passed around a bit still, though—even Courlanders from what is now Latvia took over for a while. (Latvians in the Caribbean? I had no idea.)

After declaring independence from the United Kingsom in 1962, the country became a republic in 1976. Income for Trinis? Well, it started off as sugar, moved to cacao—and these days its oil.

On the downside? Well, Trinidad still enables the use of the Cat o’nine tails when disciplining prisoners—though it hasn’t been brought out in the past few years since the Inter-American Court of Human Rights ordered the government to pay a prisoner $50,000.

Derek Walcott, though born in St Lucia, has ties to Trinidad, and of course there’s V. S. Naipaul—definitely a famous son. And a poem? How about “In Our Time” by Harold M. Telemaque. Thanks to The Oxford Book of Caribbean Verse.

In Our Time

In our land,
Poppies do not spring
From atoms of young blood,

So gaudily where men have died:
In our land,
Stiletto cane blades
Sink into our hearts,
And drink our blood.

In our land,
Sin is not deep.
And bends before the truth,
Asking repentantly for pardon:
In our Land,
The ugly stain
That blotted Eden garden
Is sunk deep only.

In our land,
Storms do not strike
For territory’s fences,
Elbow room, nor breathing spaces:
In our land,
The hurricane
Of clashes break our ranks
For tint of eye.

In our land,
We do not breed
That taloned king, the eagle,
Nor make emblazonry of lions:
In our land,
The black birds
And the chickens of our mountains
Speak our dreams.

—Harold M. Telemaque
from The Oxford Book of Caribbean Verse

Moldova

2008-08-27T07:00:00.000-07:00

Last year I actually got to celebrate Moldova’s Independence Day: I was newly arrived in Washington DC for the start of my Masters at Georgetown, and among the incoming international students I met while we were living on campus (we spent a week frantically searching for housing) was Inga—from Moldova. In fact, of the “Kennedy Orphans,” as I named our group when we all had to leave the Kennedy Hall dorms, Inga is probably the one I became closest to, though I don’t see much of her these days—different programs, and Inga has her husband and son living here too. Last year at this time, though, her family hadn’t arrived yet, and we held a housewarming-plus-Moldavan-Independence-Day party. We looked up the Transnistrian newspaper (Transnistria is a breakaway state from Moldova on the Ukrainian border; you don’t hear much about it, but you probably should—it’s believed a lot of ex-Soviet arms disappear on the black market through Transnistria. Reportedly visiting the region is like visiting a museum/theme park of the Cold War-era Soviet Union. The region is not recognised as an independent country by any other country; officially it’s an autonomous territory—capital is Tiraspol) at the party, and read an article about Moldova Independence from the Transnistrian side: the Transnistrian news site derided Moldova’s Independence Celebration, since Moldova refused to recognise Transnistria’s independence. There’s also an autonomous region in the south known as Gagauzia.

People don’t know a lot about Moldova—in fact, when I talk with people about Europe, a lot of them wouldn’t even have been able to name Moldova as a country (capital? Chişinău). I find that sad. I mean, historically the country is a crossroads: on a route between Asia and Europe it saw plenty of invasions, which I’m sure did not please the local Dacian and Sarmatian populations. Among the well-known attackers? The Huns, the Magyars, the Kievan Rus’, the Mongols. Prior to that, as it’s above Romanian, it’s also just past the end of the Roman Empire. The part of the world just beyond Ovid’s exile.

So the region was once known as Moldavia. As such, I really don’t know how the Moldovan population feel about the infamous “Moldavian Massacre” episode of Dynasty. Even more so, I don’t know how they feel about the plot where Alexis considered marrying the King, and therefore becoming the Queen of Moldavia. (I haven’t seen these episodes—yet—but I do hear that she said she was keeping the crown jewels. Oh, Alexis.)

Another interesting fact? It wasn’t the first country to re-elect a communist government after the end of the USSR (Bulgaria has that honour), but it did, indeed, elect the Party of Communists in Moldova within a decade. I’m fine with it. I just think it’s interesting. The country is a parliamentary representative democratic republic. Also, the official language is Moldovan—which is identical to Romanian.

Today’s poem is by Alexandru Vakulovski, and (once again) comes from New European Poets. Good stuff.

Amputated Homeland

in this town everyone is
unhappy on this earth
there is quiet before an
explosion yes my love I’m leaving
I am leaving across the earth
of my homeland
there everyone lives out the pleasure
of not knowing
the pleasure of losing
of not being run over by
a car of raising
unhappy children of
eating and not barfing
(sorry, vomiting) not once
I am leaving my love
my homeland is where
I am
love love love
you made me happy
you made me forget everything
I will never forget that
not once
I’m leaving

—Alexandru Vakulovski
from New European Poets
translated from the Romanian by Sean Cotter