Czech Republic

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Everyday Occurrence

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

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

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

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

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

Saint Vincent and the Grenadines

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Soufrière

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

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

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

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

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

Thirty grains of sulphur
panicked off the phone
when it rang

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

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

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

Someone who lives
inside a microphone
kept things in order

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

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

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

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

Turkmenistan

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

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

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

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

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


The Eastern Poem

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Austria

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

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

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

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

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


Aria I

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

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

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

Zambia

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shikaumbu at the Battle of Isanvu

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

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

Hungary

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

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

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

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

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

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


The Hole

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

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

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

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

in the point something throbbed,

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

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

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

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

Netherlands Antilles

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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