Dominica

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


from Mayhem and Romance in a Cropduster Fuselage

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

—Laurence Lieberman
from The Creole Mephistopheles

Antigua and Barbuda

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

from In History

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

Should I call it history?

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

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

Why should I be obsessed with all these questions?

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

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

US Virgin Islands

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

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

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

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


Charcoal




I



black man bent under

tropic sun

burning lignum vitae

for charcoal

to boil morning tea.



black woman's hands 

carry coal

for Rotterdam's steam

a cent a bucket buys

little sugar

her cracked yellow feet

mark the earth

step by step 

under Danish flag.



Millions of years ago

in another tropical forest

trees, flowers, plants

absorbed sun

day after day

then sank into earth's bosom

metamorphosed to coal.



The Dannebrog lowers a past 

“We must progress” captions 

the coal carrier's dreams of

golden roads and electric light.

Blackbeard's pieces of eight

pay for Old Glory.



II



But those were old photographs 

viewed in a wrinkled olive book

The Danish Isles of the West.

Now kodak snaps the Red 

White and Blue cooly

waving over tin shacks 

sweltering in blistering sun

for bargain hunter’s

trade magazine.



While in the dark 

a spector’ scream

of freedom's flight

Queen Mary, the one-legged 

slave jumped to her death

on the jagged rocks of the sea



The stories chant, 

“Look to the water!”

reminding us of her yearly 

apparition and a bloody sea



And we weep to the drums

that beat somewhere else

to marching rats and fighting roaches

while old man tends his coal pot

and Lennox Avenue screams identity.

—Patricia M. Fagan

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

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)

Cuba

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

St Kitts and Nevis

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


from A New World Order

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


—Caryl Phillips

Trinidad and Tobago

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

St Barthélemy

So, 24 August and it’s St Barthélemy Day—also known as St Barts, for those a little more casual. St Barts? Why the French collectivity in the Caribbean. They use the Euro, you know. Since it’s meant to be one of those “playground for the rich and famous” type places, I imagine the Euro suits them just fine. Oh, and it was Swedish for a while, though it started French. The Swedish legacy? Well, the main town on the island is Gustavia, obviously named after King Gustav (in this case, the third).

You know, there’s less than 10,000 people on Saint Barthélemy. It’s nice that they still get a day. Unlike a lot of other areas in the Caribbean, the white population is a large majority.

If you go snorkelling, you can probably see green sea turtles. I want to see green sea turtles.

In my tours of world poetry I found the oral poem “My Deery Honey,” recorded in 1805 by Samuel Augustus Matthews when he visited St Bartholomew, as it was known to the English.


My Deery Honey

Shatterday nite aucung lau town,
     Chan fine my deery honey,
Run round de lebin street,
     Chan fine my deery honey, 
Look behind me guaba bush,
     Chan fine my deery honey,
Vosh me pot, au vosh um cleam,
     Chan fine my deery honey,
Au put in paze, au put in pole,
     Chan fine my deery honey,
Au bine me pot, au bine um sweet,
     Chan fine my deery honey,
Au sweep me ouse, au sweep um clean,
     Chan fine my deery honey,
Au clean me knife, au clean um shine,
     Chan fine my deery honey,
Au mek me bed, au mek um soff
     Chan fine my deery honey,
Au mek um up, au shek um up,
     Chan fine my deery honey.

Jamaica

So, swimming below Cuba and the west of Haiti lies Jamaica. I know, I know: you’re all thinking of Tom Cruise’s character Brian Flanagan mixing cocktails by the beach in Cocktail (am I right, or am I right?) but, please, let’s think about independence for a moment or two. On 6 August, 1962 Jamaica gained its independence from the United Kingdom, and now we’re here to celebrate Jamaica’s Independence Day.

And stop thinking only of the Rastafari movement. There’s more to Jamaica than rastas, reggae and ska. There is also, for instance, James Bond. Ian Fleming lived there and liked to send the super-spy there regularly.

We’ve been reading about the Arawaks whenever we get to the Caribbean, and Jamaica is no different—the Arawak (and, apparently, maybe the Taino people as well) first settled on Jamaica anywhere between 6000 and 3000 years ago. Whether they died out immediately after European contact or survive for a little while longer, what is apparent is that there’s little trace left of the first nation peoples of Jamaica.

We’re back to Columbus—or, as I like to think of him by now, my old friend Chris. He landed in Jamaica in 1494, and claimed the island for Spain. The first settlement on the island was at Sevilla. It didn’t last long—the settlement was abandoned in 1554. Abandoned?, you ask. Why? Why, the best reason—pirates!

The English got rid of the Spanish, and in 1655 the English took over Jamaica, and then Jamaica became a sugar hot-spot. In the early nineteenth century the island was producing more than 77,000 tonnes of sugar a year. Go brush your teeth, just for thinking about that. Obviously at this stage there were slaves working on the plantations that produced all this sugar. When abolition took effect, the British brought in indentured servants from China and India. Because that’s not exploitative at all. (You can tell when I’m writing with sarcasm, right?) Oh, and Jamaica were a bit slow off the mark in letting abolition become reality: the 1833 law was enacted on 1 August 1834, but in Jamaica full emancipation didn’t really get declared until 1838. Today about 90 percent of the population are of African descent.

Around the middle of the 20th century Jamaica started to edge towards its independence until it gained full independence in 1962.

On my! The name Montego Bay (yes, I believe the Beach Boys mention Montego in "Kokomo") comes from the Spanish name Manteca bahía. Translation? Bay of Lard. No, I didn’t mis-type Lord. I mean Lard. As in, named in honour of the large boar population which contributed to the lard-making industry.

But forget about the lard. Go. Lie on a beach. Wait for your cocktail.

Before you fall asleep in the sun, a poem. I have, for your reading pleasure, “Getting There” by Edward Baugh from The Heinemann Book of Caribbean Poetry.


Getting There

It not easy to reach where she live.
I mean, is best you have a four-wheel drive,
and like how my patty pan so old
and spare parts hard to get, I fraid.
I wonder why that woman love
hillside so much and winy-winy
road, when everybody know
she born under Cross Roads clock and grow
by seaside like all the rest of we.
Some part, I tell you, two vehicle can’t pass
and if rain falling is watercourse
you navigating, and rockstone mashing up
you muffler, and ten to one
a landslide blocking you. You must
keep you eye sharp for the turn-off
or you pass it and lost. I bet
by now you dying to know
who this woman I talking bout
so much! Well, to tell
the truth, I not too sure
myself. My friend who study
Literature say she is the tenth
muse. Him say her name
is Silence. I don’t know
nothing bout that, but I want
to believe what them other one say
is true—that when you reach
you don’t worry so much
bout the gas and the wear-and-tear
no more, and it have some flowers
and bird make your spirit repose
in gladness, and is like
everything make sense, at last.

—Edward Baugh
from The Heinemann Book of Caribbean Poetry

Montserrat

The first Monday of August in Montserrat is celebrated as “August Monday”—this is a celebration of Emancipation Day. A lot of Caribbean nations and territories carve out a day to celebrate the Slavery Abolition Act of 1833, that came into effect on 1 August 1834. Some countries keep the holiday on 1 August, while others have a time in the first week of August—as Montserrat does, choosing Monday as the day to celebrate. Montserrat is still a British territory. Location? Montserrat is part of the Leeward Islands in the Lesser Antilles—it’s to the East of Puerto Rico, near the top of the tail of islands that heads down toward South America. The name? Not exactly British? Columbus named it, and he wasn’t terribly British either. He named it after Montserrat in Catalonia. The island was forced to drastically rearrange itself on 13 years ago, following the eruption of Soufriere Hills volcano in 1995—this eruption (the volcano had previously been dormant) destroyed the capital of Plymouth, and two-thirds of the population fled the island. The volcano is still erupting, though not on the same scale. The village of Brades—population 1000—is the de facto capital at present.

Want to record an album? Why not head to Montserrat? George Martin (that’s right, of Beatles-producer fame) built studios there in 1979. Record your music in peace.

There’s a familiar narrative with these Caribbean islands: at the time that Columbus claimed it in 1493, the island was populate by Arawak and Carib people. Despite claiming the island for Spain, the Spanish never colonised, and in 1632 Montserrat fell into British hands, as a group of Irish settlers dashed away from Saint Kitts and Nevis, where Roman Catholicism was not popular, and moved to Montserrat. Among the slaves imported in the following centuries were the usually suspects—but also, apparently, Irish slaves who were exiled after Cromwell’s spree in Ireland. For a few years during the American Revolutionary War France captured Montserrat, but the island was returned to British control. Oh, and Montserrat is one of only two places in the world to celebrate St Patrick’s Day as a public holiday. The reason? It’s the anniversary of a 1798 uprising.

Before Montserrat stood alone as a territory, it was first part of the collective colony of the Leeward Islands, and then, for the four years between 1958 and 1962, part of the oh-so-brief West Indies Federation. Then it stood alone. And in 2002 the people of Montserrat were granted full British citizenship. Now that’s a perk.

A poem? Yes, I know that’s what you’re really waiting for. Well, here’s one by Howard Fergus. I found it in The Oxford Book of Caribbean Verse—which is, by the by, a great anthology, collecting poems (translated into English if need be) from all the different languages of the Caribbean.


Behind God Back

You come from a two-be-three island
hard like rock
black you have another handicap
and you come from Long Ground
way behind God back.

They taught you like a fool
never told you miles of cotton
went to Liverpool
to line the Bank of England
from Long Ground behind God back
he shoulda turned round
and catch the thieves white-handed
white and black

They took you for an imbecile
never told you Montserrat tobacco
made W.D. and H.O. Wills
rich testators of Bristol University
lightning their names on the crest of history
with Long Ground tobacco
bought behind God back

Never told you how your mother strong
to carry buckra cotton
and his seed
fertile like Long Ground soil
strong to carry bales of history
and buckra deeds heavy like a sack
of cotton picked behind God back

People in the town
didn’t know off-white and brown were black
until they went to England
Powell vote to pack them back
rejected like stained cotton
didn’t know when God turned round
his smile like a rainbow
lit Long Ground with hope
and cotton children weave boot strap
to pull themselves up
from behind God back.

—Howard Fergus
from The Oxford Book of Caribbean Verse

Bermuda

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Wild Jasmine

Her water never broke

but the tides came in nonetheless

she smelled it months away at sea

approaching with the casual assuredness 

of longtail flights

but loudly and repeatedly announced

with sea-fondled baubles 

deposited on the north shoreline

the sudden inexplicable scent of wild jasmine

the phosphorescent aqua seas of her dreams

yes the tides did come

two new lives uncovered in the pink sands

unnoticed in the blue distance

the glistening tail and shadow of doubt

submerging and heading out to open ocean

—by Alan Smith

Puerto Rico

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

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

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

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

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


Under the Knife

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

—Judith Ortiz Cofer
from The Oxford Book of Caribbean Verse

French Guiana

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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


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

Martinique

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

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

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

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

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

Lost Body

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

          I shall command the islands to exist.

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

Guadeloupe

14 July. Fête Nationale. Live in a French territory—or rather, overseas department? Then it is your solemn duty to celebrate France’s national day. The French call it Quatorze Juillet—the rest of the world calls it Bastille Day. Some territories also have their own day of celebration—when that’s the case, I’ve chosen to write the entry on day that celebrates the particular culture of a territory, but for those without territory days, they arrive in a glut alongside France. The motherland. Oh, there's no official flag - other than the French flag. But there are also two unofficial flags. Admire them all.

So—Guadeloupe? Caribbean, man. You forgot about the archipelago? There are five islands, south of Saint-Barthélemy and French St Martin—both of the latter used to be part of Guadeloupe’s jurisdiction, but they, so to speak, grew up and moved out of home. This was actually really recent—they voted for separate collectivity status in 2003, and it came into effect on 22 February 2007.

Europeans landed on Guadeloupe in 1493—yes, that’s right, Mr Columbus strikes again. It was his second voyage, and he had a hankering for fresh water. No-one stayed ashore after this landfall, but Chris did take the time to name it: Santa María Guadalupe de Extremadura. But that’s a bit of a mouthful. Still, that’s where it comes from. It appears Columbus didn’t really have much to do with it after this.

The French, after establishing a successful settlement on St Kitts, decided more colonizing was in order, and after a toss up between Martinique, Dominica and Guadeloupe decided on—you guess it!—Guadeloupe. (This time. They didn’t forget about Martinique, though Dominica ended up in the hands of the British.) In proper colonizing spirit the set about killing of the Carib Amerindians when they moved in in1635. Official annexation to France came in 1674—I guess this was a like a red rag to the bull as then the British decided to seize it from time to time in the next century. Ah, the pesky relations of those kingdoms staring at each other across the English Channel—how refreshing to move it to a different front!

The upper class weren’t too happy when political change came to the islands, in the form of equal rights for free coloured inhabitants—and in a new world French revolution, the monarchists won out over the republicans. Well, for a while. When a slave rebellion started suddenly the islands turned away from France and asked the British to occupy them. A little more turmoil followed—it took until 1815 before it was sorted out, when French control was acknowledged in the Treaty of Vienna. They tossed out slavery in 1848.

While Saint-John Perse is the best known poet from the islands (he won the Nobel Prize in 1960) the poem I have for you is by Guy Tirolien. Disappointed? I’m not stopping you from looking up Perse’s work… in fact, I actively encourage it! This poem comes from The Oxford Book of Caribbean Verse, and was translated from the French by Nick Caistor.


Islands

This is the low house
in which my race has grown.
Twisting and lifting, the road
takes off beyond.
Will it reach the weary waters
beneath the distant mango trees?

Smells of burnt earth and salt cod
wafting under the muzzle of thirst.
A smile splitting the ripe coco-plum
of an aged face.
The vague prayer of smoke-trails.
Lament of a prolonged neighing
that scales the sides of the ravines.
Voices of rum
with their breathe
warming our ears.

Clatter of dominoes rifling the birds’ repose.
Calypso rhythms
in the warm belly of our banjos.
Laughter of desire in the deep insides of the night.
Mouths starved of bread
swilling the cheap alcohol
of words.

The island pushing towards morning
its weight of humanity.

—Guy Tirolien
from The Oxford Book of Caribbean Verse
translated from the French by Nick Caistor

The Bahamas

It’s not just a cruise destination. It’s also an independent nation: on 10 July in 1973 the Bahamas became fully independent from Britain, and so today we’re celebrating Bahamian Independence Day. Over seven hundred islands—and over two thousand cays. But were there pirates? Let’s find out.

The islands were uninhabited until the 7th century it seems—the first people to venture into this little slice of paradise (well, for those who like gorgeous beaches…) were the Taino (they came to be known as Lucayans), coming from Cuba and Hispaniola. Then there was Columbus. His first landfall in this New World—an historic event, obviously—was on an island he named San Salvador, and it’s pretty well accepted that that’s San Salvador Island in the Bahamas. While Chris (I feel that over time I’ve gotten to a first-name basis with the man) traded with the Lucayans, the Spaniards that followed weren’t so friendly—they depopulated the islands, leaving them deserted for a century or so. (I do ask the question, if they weren’t going to do anything with them, what was the point of “depopulating” them? That’s the sort of thing that makes me grumpy.) In the mid 1600s the English decided to do something with the islands—some “adventurers” arrived from Bermuda, and obviously thought “let’s set up shop here.” And they did.

Soon after this King Charles II decided to rent out the Bahamas to the Lord Proprietors of the Carolinas.

And, yes, there were pirates, including Blackbeard, the big bad. Awesome.

During the American Revolutionary War the US Marines (yes, there were Marines back then) occupied the capital… for a fortnight.

And then, following World War II, the move toward independence. First came self-government, before full nationhood. Like Australia, though, they still recognise the queen. (Or am I meant to capitalise that, to be properly respectful of my monarch?) The current prime minister is Hubert (Hubert!) Ingraham.

And of course, it’s a subtropical wonderland of tourism. And off-shore financial services. Can anyone say tax haven?

Today’s poem is by Percival A Miller. Incidentally, my grandfather’s name was Leslie Percival. For his entire life he was known as Tim. The poem is from a longer work, “The Ballad of the Great Canoe.” I found it online here, quoted in a paper including some work on Bahamian poetry. Interesting stuff, and thanks to Dean W. Collinwood for putting some information about Bahamian culture out there.


from The Ballad of the Great Canoe

A band of numen came today

riding the wide water out of the dawn

in a canoe as big as a pueblo.



Their hair was like the silk of maize

their skin was paler than the sand

their knitted garments sheathed their limbs

helmet like peapods hid their crowns

they spoke the language of birds and cattle.


. . .

We ran into the bushes and hid

but we came back to touch them

we had to see if they were men as we were

what use is the hamac if the stranger is not known

what joy is the full tabaca if you cannot test the

stranger's strength.


—Percival A Miller

Cayman Islands

On 7 July the Cayman Islands celebrate Constitution Day—the Caymans are a British Overseas Territory (and a tax haven, in case that’s important to any of you, my dear readers).

The islands were spotted—as, it seems, were most islands in the Caribbean—by Columbus in 1503. He was impressed enough with the number of sea turtles (sea turtles!) to be found there that he called the islands Las Tortugas. Twenty years later they appeared on a map as Lagartos—which apparently means (I’m expanding my vocabulary-in-translation as we speak) alligators or large lizards. But by 1530 they were know as the Caymanes—it’s a Carib word for the marine crocodile that lived in the islands. What a wonderfully animal-ful naming process! (Oh, and if you look carefully at the flag you'll see a turtle. More flags should have turtles on them.)

There were no permanent inhabitants until Isaac Bodden was born on Grand Cayman around 1700. So it took some time. And then there was the usual 18th century Caribbean ragtag bunch: pirates. Shipwrecked sailors. People fleeing the Spanish Inquisition. So I guess the islands must have been a real party spot with that mix. And of course slavery reared its ever-ugly head too.

Before Isaac Bodden was born there, however, Britain had taken control of the islands. Attempts at formal settlement were unsuccessful for the first 60 years or so from when they took over in 1670, but the 1730s saw settlements cropping up.

Oh, and there’s a legend about the tax-haven status of the islands: in 1794 ten vessels were wrecked on the reef of Gun Bay (this is part of Grand Cayman)—but the locals pitched in, and no lives were lost. Now this event is know as “The Wreck of the Ten Sail” and the story goes that there was a member of the royal family on one of the ships. King George III was so pleased with the Caymanians that he decreed they should never be conscripted for war, and that they should never be taxed. Nice story—and I’m not declaring it untrue, but I’m sad to say that apparently there’s no real evidence to support it.

For a long time the Caymans were either effectively or officially administered as a dependency of Jamaica, but when Jamaica gained independence in 1962, the Caymans broke away, opting for direct dependency on the United Kingdom. Slightly before that, 1959 saw the first written constitution come into being—and, coming late to the game of women’s suffrage—this was the first time women were allowed to vote in the Caymans.

Incidentally, I happened to meet a girl at a party in the past week who had been to the islands last year—she reported that she was surprised at how desolate the region was. That surprises me—but then the Caymans, I have just learned, have experienced the most hurricane strikes in history. I imagine that can’t have helped—Hurricane Ivan had a huge impact in 2004, though infrastructure was quickly rebuilt. And the beaches look, as ever in the Caribbean, picture-perfect.

Looking for a poem by a Caymanian poet, what I found was an excerpt of the poem “Mama Duppy Tips” by the poet Rita Estevanovich—the excerpt comes from here. What I particularly like is that it uses the Cayman dialect—I’m a big fan of dialect. Enjoy!


from Mama Duppy Tips

“My mama Gwendolyn say dat duppies don’t humbug ya now

like how dey used-ta in her days

Da ‘ka’ e’rybody gaw ‘lectricity ya see

And by-passes tekin’ grape bush place

My mama say dat duppies was as t’ick as misquitas in the month of May!

But b’cause some chilrin is so bad nowadays

It da duppies dat hides away!

My mama learned me all about ’um,

‘ka’ she say some-a-um still ‘rooms’ da place

Like dah same wery one with the rancid breath 

An’ da fiery red eyes in he face

Some people say duppies is the spirits of enemies;

Hungry souls ‘wundrin’ the Earth night and day

Some ewen say dey come straight outta Hell,

An’ I don’t mean down Wes’ Bay!


—Rita Estevanovich