Brazil

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

Indonesia

Krakatoa. Doesn’t it evoke a kind of sublime? Sumatra. Java. Bali. Borneo. When are we going?

I’m not sure how I’ve not been to Indonesia, since I have been to Malaysia and Singapore. It seems quite lazy of me, in fact! But rest assured, Indonesia is high—very high—on my list of places to go. Though its not an official Islamic state, Indonesia is still the nation is still the most populous mostly-Muslim country going. It’s a republic—Indonesia declared its independence in 1945. It used to be known as the Dutch East Indies. Like spices? There’s quite a spice-history in the place. Nutmeg, for instance. Native to the Banda Islands. The Europeans were definitely fans. And there’s some serious biodiversity going on there.

Indonesia… reminds you of “Indo-European,” “India,” and perhaps the “Indus Valley.” It comes from a combination of Latin and Greek—“Indus” is Latin for “India”. (Yes, yes, imaginative.) “Nesos” is the Greek for “island.” The name began to circulate in the 18th century, though the Dutch were not fans—this was, after all, the Dutch East Indies. Asserting empire is important. From the beginning of the twentieth century, though, more people began to use the name until it became the official name of the country.

We know, don’t we, that Indonesia has been inhabited for a hell of a long time—at least half a million years.

The Europeans began visiting in the 16th century. While the Dutch established the region as a colony, their control was a slight thing, and it ended with the Japanese occupation of the area. Only two days after Japan’s surrender, Sukarno declared independence. The Netherlands was unsuccessful in trying to put their stamp on things again.

Sukarno became an authoritarian leader, and lasted until he was outfoxed by General Suharto in 1968, resigning 30 years later in 1998. These days Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono is in charge, though I feel like I still hear as much about Suharto ten years after the resignation as I do about the current president.

Another of those new things I’ve learned from this project: Indonesia is the home of the Toba supervolcano. Not familiar with supervolcanos? Well, the term only official entered volcanology in 2003. Their eruptions are greater than any mere volcano of recorded history, and their eruption can cause global devestation: for instance, a super volcanic eruption can cause an ice age. Wow. Oh, and the Lake Toba super eruption was responsible, apparently for the formation of sulphuric acid in the atmosphere. Who knew?

Now that I’ve read all that, I’m definitely going. Sometime. I want to study geology more, too.

In the mean time, I’ll leave you with a poem, while you’re digesting the supervolcanic info. This piece, “Saint Rosa, I,” is by Dorothea Rosa Herliany, and is taken from Language for a New Century.

Saint Rosa, I

for the husband of my past, I write no history.
the old books in the library of my heart
only record a few sad stories of defeat.
a group of soldiers lined up like children.
returning home to snail shells on coral reefs.
abandoning vague scraps of hope, among
broken sharks’ teeth.
for my lovers, I search for an anxious body
abandoned in a room filled with men
eager to set the world on fire. they offer
stacks on second-hand goods, wonderful
air-conditioning machines. I enjoy the heat,
it is brief, silent, while my thirst is endless.
my disappointment makes me man. I have stayed too long.
I want to climb up into the Himilayas and stay there.
watch my lust grow cold, then explode
and destroy the world.
but I am tired of dreaming
the house is narrow and covered with dirt.
if hope should ever arrive
it would be a useless lump of time.

—Dorothea Rosa Herliany
translated from the Indonesian by Harry Aveling
from Language for a New Century

Gabon

17 August is Gabon’s Independence Day—the Gabonese gained their independence from France on this day in 1960. So, that’s 48 years of independence nationhood, right? The country has had two presidents in that time. Well, discounting a 24 hour interruption. Let’s find out more.

Initial inhabitants? Pygmy peoples. Absorbed into an influx of Bantu tribes. Europeans came along in the 15th century—in fact, the name “Gabon” comes from a European source. It originates in the Portuguese word for cabin—Gabâo. So, that was the coastal contact. The interior always takes a bit longer—it was 1875 before Pierre Savorgnan de Brazza led his first expedition into the Gabon-Congo region. He founded the imaginatively named town, Franceville.

When France put together a bunch of territories to make French Equatorial Africa (yes, it’s equatorial), Gabon became part of that federation—lasting from 1910 until 1959. And then came independence.

So the first president, Léon M’ba, led the country for 6 years, from 1961 until his death in 1967. (There was actually a usurper in 1964—for 24 hours. Jean-Hilaire Aubame ended up in prison for ten years.) His vice president became the successor, and Omar Bongo has ruled the country ever since. In the 1990s reforms came in to move the country to a multiparty democracy, but President Bongo has been consistently re-elected. Though there have been questions about the fairness of these elections, international observers say that the results were representative, though there were perceived irregularities.

Mmm. Rainforests. They cover 85 percent of the country.

Poetically, I have a Gabonese Pygmy song for you today—it comes from 3,000 Years of Black Poetry3,000 Years of Black Poetry, and was translated by C. M. Bowra.


The Elephant II

Elephant hunter, take your bow!
Elephant hunter, take your bow!

In the weeping forest, under the wing of the evening
the night all black has gone to rest happy:
in the sky the stars have fled trembling,
fireflies shine vaguely and put out their lights:
above us the moon is dark, its white light is put out.
The spirits are wandering. 

Elephant hunter, take your bow!
Elephant hunter, take your bow!

In the frightened forest the tree sleeps, the leaves
      are dead,
the monkeys have closed their eyes, hanging from the 
      branches above us:
the antelopes slip past with silent steps,
eat the fresh grass, prick their ears,
lift their heads and listen frightened:
the cicada is silent, stops his grinding son.

Elephant hunter, take your bow!
Elephant hunter, take your bow!

In the forest lashed by the great rain
Father elephant walks heavily, baou, baou,
careless, without fear, sure of his strength,
Father elephant, whom no one can vanquish:
among the trees which he breaks he stops and starts again:
he eats, roars, overturns trees and seeks his mate:
Father elephant, you have been heard from far.

Elephant hunter, take your bow!
Elephant hunter, take your bow!

In the forest where no one passes but you,
hunter, lift up your heart, leap and walk:
meat in front of you, the huge piece of meat, 
the meat that walks like a hill.
the meat that makes the heart glad,
the meat that we’ll roast on our coals,
the meat into which our teeth sink,
the fine red meant and the blood we drink smoking.

Elephant hunter, take your bow!
Elephant hunter, take your bow!

—Gabon Pygmy song
translated by C. M. Bowra
from 3,000 Years of Black Poetry

Republic of the Congo

We’re back in Heart of Darkness territory, as on 15 August the Republic of the Congo celebrates its Independence Day—the country became independent from France in 1960. Compare with the Democratic Republic of the Congo, the Republic of the Congo is quite small—but size isn’t the issue. (After all, 15 August is also Liechtenstein’s national day—now that is a tiny nation…)

Original inhabitants? Pygmy peoples. Their replacements? Bantu tribes. First European contact? 15th century, with the Portuguese. Slavery? Check: the Portuguese were trading for slaves in the interior, while the coast was a source for the transatlantic slave trade. Scramble for Africa? Well, the Congo river was a target for conquest, and a number of powers fought for the territory. Eventually it was divided between three powers—the Portuguese got Cabinda (now an area of Angola), which is north of the Congo on the Atlantic Coast, Belgium got only a small part at the mouth of the river—but the enormous hinterland, while France took the area north of the river.

The area that is now the Republic of the Congo was initially joined with other French holdings, and called French Equitorial Africa: it included Chad and the Central African Republic too.

While there was a pretty quick ousting of the first president, it took eight years for a coup d’état to happen. (I have to admit to finding it quite depressing that I read these histories now waiting for the coup—but I expect them all over. They just happened longer ago in some places.) A year after Captain Marien Ngouabi took over, he announced that the country was a people’s republic. In 1977, still president, Ngouabi was assassinated.

After being under a Marxist regime for decades, in 1992 mutli-party democracy entered the game—though, as usual, it hasn’t been smooth sailing. 1997 saw the beginning of a civil war that ended when a peace deal came into effect at the end of 1999. The 2002 elections following this were considered a sham—and a new constitution allowed the president more power and a longer term.

Most people live in the southwest area of the country—there’s a lot of tropical jungle up north that doesn’t see many people.

Today’s poem is by Tchicaya U Tam’si. I have to admit it’s another I found while roaming around looking for pieces, but I didn’t record where I found it. When there’s time, I’ll fill in these gaps.


Epitaph

                    from L’Arc musical (1970)


We are this union
of water salt and earth
of sunshine and flesh
bespattering the sun
no more among the sea marks
but because there is this song
which ruins all the gulfs
which recreates a genesis
of wind weather and flesh!

I predict a babel
of unoxidized steel
or of crossed blood
mixed in the dregs of all surges!
After the red man,
after the black man,
after the yellow man,
after the white man,
there is already the man of bronze
sole alloy of the soft fires
we have still to ford.

—Tchicaya U Tam’si

Ecuador

Yes, Ecuador is equatorial. That’s what the name is, gringo. Planning a trip to the Galápagos Islands for a Darwinian experience? You’ll be stopping in Ecuador first. Embrace it. And embrace Ecuadorian Independence Day. While the country didn’t gain its independence on that fateful day, it was 10 August in 1809 that the first demand for independence from Spain was made—not just the first in Ecuador, mind you, but the first in Latin America. Leading the charge. Fanfare, thanks.

Of course, before the Spanish arrived, the local civilizations came into the Inca Empire—wars, marriages, the usual. (Before that, Ecuador had been inhabited for a few thousand years. Go explore the pre-Columbian section of your local museum.)

So. The Spanish. Disease. Death. An all-round experience of mirth. That is, in the Edith Wharton House of Mirth kind of (extremely non-mirthful) way.

The whole country was independent from Spain by 1822—it then joined Gran Colombia for a few years before full independence in 1830. Smooth sailing from there? Not entirely. Territorial disputes with Peru developed into war in 1941. Needless to say, with World War II going on at the time, this was frowned upon, and the matter was resolved relatively quickly when Ecuador and Peru signed the Rio Protocol in 1942—Peru got the territory, but the Americas presented unity in opposition to the Axis powers. I hope Ecuador was at least pleased with the latter half of the equation.

Oh, and on the bumpy road (as opposed to smooth sailing) theme, the 1970s saw a military junta overthrow the government. The country was subject to military governments from 1972 until 1979—when elections brought back democracy. (Democracy is the new black.)

Hey, did you know that Conservation International has a “megadiverse” category? There are 17 megadiverse countries, and Ecuador is one of them. Awesome.

A poem for you, my dear readers. This one’s by Jorge Enrique Adoum, translated by the inimitable Wayne H. Finke, taken from the Anthology of Contemporary Latin American Literature 1960-1984. Titled “Ecuador,” how could I choose any other poem?


Ecuador

I. Geography

It is an unreal country limited by itself,
divided by an imaginary line
and yet carved out in concrete at the foot of a pyramid.
If not, how could the foreign woman be photographed
astride my homeland like on a mirror,
the line just below her sex
and on the back: “Greetings from the center of the world.”
(Children, large skeleton-like eyes
surrounded, and an indian weeping
mountains of centuries behind a burro)

II. Memory

The soul cavitied, that passageway aches in
the root’s nerve, and I, Pavlov’s dog, in a leap
sit beside the doorway of the tin-shop
(there it was always during the day) to sniff about the street
on which I returned and they follow the beating me.
When one has no homeland yet save
for that incurable sadness beneath one’s pride,
the homeland is the pocket of memory from which
I extract this: throngs of indians in the drunkenness
of the mass and flailed with kicks on Sunday afternoon,
the cemetery where I accompanied so many school
mates to review principles of law: this,
pieces of an old animal, this suffices me, I reconstruct
integrally the torrid patriotic Paleolithic folkloric,
the tanners of the republic, the daily clay
where we slip pleasantly. (You too, little dinosaur
bone, your ankle by which you are tied to
me, monstrous quartering, and your other ankle
by which you are bound, for I am you exile.)
And the song with which they lull the victim
so that he dies without uttering a word
and with which they torment the dog
in order to see how his member swells erect.
Willingly. Just for the experiment.

—Jorge Enrique Adoum
translated from the Spanish by Wayne H. Finke
from Anthology of Contemporary Latin American Literature 1960-1984

Maldives

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

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

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

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

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

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


Dying for a Himalayan Dream

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

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

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

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

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

—Farah Didi,
from Language for a New Century

Colombia

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Invocation

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

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

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

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

Kiribati

I love Kiribati’s flag. It’s so pretty!

On 12 July in 1979 (the year of my birth, in case anyone wants to know that…) Kiribati attained its independence from the United Kingdom—so today they’re celebrating their Independence Day. Fantastic!

I’m guessing there are a lot of people who get a bit hazy on their geography when it comes to Oceania. Kiribati is between the Marshall Islands and Tuvalu—east of Papua New Guinea (which, of course, is above Australia, sitting north of Queensland.) Got it? The islands—32 atolls and a raised coral island, spread over three and a half million square kilometres, is scattered around the equator—and it borders the international date line. In fact, the international dateline used to run through the country—not terribly convenient. It was moved east of the Line Islands group in 1995. The main island chain is the Gilberts.

Micronesians have lived in the islands for quite a while—we don’t really know how long. They could have arrived as early as 3000 BCE, they could have showed up around the 14th century. Well, according to Wikipedia. (I’m actually starting to think, by the by, that next year I’ll update these entries to make them a little less dry, and a little more informative.) The colonising folks showed up in the 18th and 19th century. Whalers, merchants and slavers visited the islands. As was so often the case they broke guns and germs with them. (I don’t know about steel, Jared Diamond.) British settlers came to the party in 1837, and the Gilbert Islands got together with the neighbouring Ellice Islands (now Tuvalu) to become a British protectorate.

Remembering the French continuing their nuclear tests in the Pacific in the 1990s? The trend’s been in place for a while—the British thought Kiribati would make a good spot for testing in the late 1960s. No, they didn’t worry about evacuating the locals.

Self-rule came in 1971, and then the Gilberts separated from the Ellice Islands with internal self-government. The country became Kiribati at the same time as it gained its independence—Kiribati is the Gibertese for Gilberts. Oh, and I learned only a few days ago that the “ti” syllable is pronounced more as a “-ts” sound.

Since independence there’ve been a few issues—overcrowding for one. Some residents were resettled from the main island group of the nation to less-populated islands. More recently there’s been a law enacted that allows the government to shut down newspapers—not a huge vote of confidence in media freedom. Still, more the more general human rights record is good.

Today’s poem is by the I-Kiribati poet Teresia Teaiwa. I found it online here.


Te onauti *


Be te onauti

And fly.

Walking is for

Pathetic bipeds,

And swimming

Only half an option.

Men see one horizon

Where you always see two.

Perhaps that is why

fishermen lost and

unable to stomach

any more of the sea

feel fortunate to

catch you

so they may suck on your eyes.

Fish out of water: fly.

Fish, out of water, see two horizons.


* Kiribati for 'flying fish'


— Teresia Teaiwa

São Tomé and Príncipe

So, São Tomé and Príncipe celebrate Independence Day on 12 July—independence? From Portugal. 1975. São Tomé and Príncipe are two islands, about 140 kilometres apart, and around 250 kilometres from the African mainland. They’re in the Gulf of Guinea, and if you head east from the islands, you’ll run into Gabon. They’re pretty well equatorial—São Tomé (the southernmost of the two) is just north of that invisible line. For the trivia night fact collection? It’s the smallest nation in the wold that is not a former British overseas territory, for US trusteeship or one of those European microstates. Yes, those are a few exceptions to remember—but interesting, yes? São Tomé is named, as I’m sure you can tell, for Saint Thomas—Portuguese explorers arrived on his feast day.

And before that 15th century Saint Thomas’s day, the islands were uninhabited. After exploring, the Portuguese decided the islands would make a nice base for trading with the mainland. Settlement began in 1493 on São Tomé, and in 1500 on Príncipe. Not a lot of people wanted to move there, though, and apparently early settlers were sent from Portugal as “undesirables.” In keeping with the nature of 16th century attitudes, a lot of those sent to the islands were Jews.

When sugar production took off in the islands the Portuguese paid attention, and made sure to administer the islands. Profit is a great motivator. When the new world brought better sugar colonies, the islands became a transit point for the slave trade—well, until that dried up too. Next up? Coffee and cocoa. (You need to move with the times—and I haven’t seen popularity of either product wane…) Cocoa is still the most important crop. Yum.

When the Caetano dictatorship ended in Portugal in 1974, the country decided to dissolve its overseas colonies—independence became the order of the day. So the Movement for the Liberation of São Tomé and Príncipe, formed in the 1950s, had its day. In the 1990s the country decided to go in for democratic reform, with a multi-party system and free and fair elections. Good job. There was something of a hiccup in July 2003—the army decided they’d do it better and seized power. It was a brief event though—after a week the president was back in power.

The poem I’ve got for you is by Aldo de Espirito Santo, and is from The Penguin Book of Modern African Poetry. It was translated from the Portuguese by Gerald Moore. (I hope you all remember to appreciate translators when you read books from other languages…)


Where are the Men Seized in this Wind of Madness?

Blood falling in drops to the earth
men dying in the forest
and blood falling, falling…
on those cast into the sea…
Fernâo Dias for ever in the story
of Ilha Verde, red with blood,
of men struck down
in the vast arena of the quay.
Alas the quay, the blood, the men,
the fetters, the lash of beatings
resound, resound, resound
dropping in the silence of prostrated lives
of cries, and howls of pain
from men who are men no more,
in the hands of nameless butchers
Zé Mulato in the story of the quay
shooting men in the silence
of bodies falling.
Alas Zé Mulato, Zé Mulato,
The victims cry for vengeance
The sea, the sea of Fernâo Dias
devouring human lives
is bloody red.
—We are arisen—
Our eyes are turned to you.
Our lives entombed
in fields of death,
men of the Fifth of February
men fallen in the furnace of death
imploring pity
screaming for life,
dead without air, without water
they all arise
from the common grave
and upright in the chorus of justice
cry for vengeance…
The fallen bodies in the forest,
the homes, the homes of men
destroyed in the gulf
of ravening fire,
lives incinerated,
raised the unaccustomed chorus of justice
crying for vengeance.
And all you hangmen
all you torturers
sitting in the dock:
—What have you done with my people? …
—What do you answer?
—Where is my people? …
And I answer in the silence
of voices raised
demanding justice…
One by one, through all the line…
For you, tormentors,
forgiveness has no name.
Justice shall be heard.
And the blood of lives fallen
in the forests of death,
innocent blood
drenching the earth
in a silence of terrors
shall make the earth fruitful,
crying for justice,
It is the flame of humanity
singing of hope
in a world without bonds
where liberty
is the fatherland of men…


—Aldo do Espirito Santo
from The Penguin Book of Modern African Poetry
translated from the Portuguese by Gerald Moore

Democratic Republic of the Congo

One could be forgiven for getting confused about the Democratic Republic of the Congo. For one thing, it’s often referred to as DR Congo, DRC or RDC. For another, it’s also been known by several other names: the Congo Free State (no, that does not mean that it’s free of the Congo; it’s not); the Belgian Congo, Congo-Léopoldville, Congo-Kinshasa and, of course, Zaire. My point is that they’re all the one place, and none of them are the Republic of the Congo, which neighbours it to the west. Got that straight? Good. Now it’s time to celebrate their Independence Day (from Belgium), so open your hymnals to 30 June. The year was 1960.

So, there have been people there for thousands of years, but colonisers arrived late in the game—from the 1870s onward. And I expect a few of you have read Heart of Darkness, and thought about the snake that is the River Congo. Anyway, Europeans obviously decided to make up for leaving the locals in peace for so long by brutalising them when they finally arrived. They may have missed the slave-trade era, but they could be exploited for their rubber. King Leopold II made a lot of money out of rubber, and, not wanting to lose this source of income, sent in the Force Publique to terrorise the native population. How? Well, cutting off limbs in order to get the message across that rubber quotas had to be met. In a little over 20 years it’s believed that between five and fifteen million Congolese died as a result of this exploitation and diseases. Think about that for a moment. Now there’s a genocide no-one thinks about much. Luckily, at the time they did think about it—international pressure led to the Belgian parliament taking over the “Free State” from the king as a Belgian colony, improving the situation somewhat—they even brought about the teaching of a few Bantu languages in school, which was not a common practice at all in colonies. Doctors reduced the spread of African Sleeping Sickness, and the administration went in for economic reform and improvement of infrastructure.

But while this was a definite improvement, there was still a distinct lack of political power for the Congolese—everything was decided in Brussels and Leopoldville. An independence movement grew slowly. Oh, and during their time as a Belgian colony, the Congolese invaded and occupied German East Africa (including what is now Rwanda) during World War I. Reportedly some of the Belgian-instituted racial policies that came about during their administration of the country were a precursor to the Rwandan genocide.

Now, the name. When the country achieved its independence it chose the name “Republic of Congo.” However, their neighbours, also gaining independence (from France) chose the same name. For a while the two countries were known by their capital cities (Congo-Leopoldville; Congo-Brazzaville) and then in 1966 the name was changed to the Democratic Republic of the Congo. In 1971 it was changed to Zaire. In 1997 it was changed back. Oh, and I have to say I’m pleased that they changed the name of the capital to Kinshasa. I wouldn’t want to commemorate King Leopold II either.

There’ve been quite a few periods of political instability. Okay, that’s probably a severe understatement—it’s sad that political turmoil in emerging African nations is the rule, not the exception. The Mobutu era takes up most of the period of the country’s independence: 32 years to be exact.

Human rights seem to be unstable too—for instance, I read that “violence against women seems to be perceived by large sectors of society to be normal.”

Today’s poem, by Antoine-Roger Bolamba, comes from The Penguin Book of Modern African Poetry.


Portrait

I have my gri-gri
                 gri-gri
                 gri-gri
my calm bounding awake
clings to the wavy limbs of the Congo
never a stormy passage for my heart
bombarded with glowing oriflammes
I think of my silver necklace
become a hundred isles of silence
I admire the obstinate patience
of the okapi
bluebird battered in the open sky
what shipwreck
plunges it to the gulf of nothingness
nothingness empty of nightly entreaties

Ah! the broken resolutions
ah! the screaming follies
let my face fall upon its guardians
they are three villains

I say three in counting 1 2 3
who dim the ancestral mirror
but you fugitive image
I will see you on the height of dizzy anger
wait while I put on my brown my mask of blood
and soon you will see
my tongue flutter like a banner.

—Antoine-Roger Bolamba
from The Penguin Book of Modern African Poetry

Somalia

Present day Somalia is the union of two former colonies that gained independence a few days apart—26 June is the anniversary of the independence of British Somaliland; following hot on the heels of this, 1 July saw Italian Somaliland gain independence, uniting with British Somaliland on the same day, forming the Somali republic. Continuously inhabited for the past two and a half millennia, the region had trading links with the Greeks and Romans, saw the establishment of Islam in the 500 years from 700 to 1200, with European influence arriving in the 16th century, though it was really in the 19th century “scramble for Africa” that European-style imperialism arrived, with Somalia divided between the territorial claims of Britain, Italy and France. (Former French Somaliland didn’t form a union with Somalia, but is now the separate country Djibouti.)

With Somalia’s position on the Red Sea, across from the Yemeni port city of Aden, British interest in the region was all but guaranteed—the Red Sea being an important region for sea-connection to India. Italy didn’t have as much experience in colonialism when the scramble was on, and while they ended up with the largest claim in the country, it was the least important strategically.

Resistance to imperialism got under way in 1899, and a guerrilla war, lasting over two decades, ensued. (Somalian dervishes were fundamental in this resistance movement.)

Following World War II (in which Italy first conquered British Somaliland, then Britain in turn took back the region, and administered the whole of Somalia) military control in Somaliland began to relax—the question of the future of Somalia became was debated from 1945 onwards. While this was being debated, a commission of the Allied nations granted the area of Ogaden to Ethiopia, leading to war years later. The UN decided in 1949 that Italian trusteeship would continue for the next decade as a result of the economic benefits their presence brought to the region—aid money, Italian administration in the 1950s did see significant infrastructural development in the country.

With independence, the dormant issue of Ogaden arose, and the divide between the formerly British and Italian regions also became an issue, with language and cultural differences becoming apparent. A secession movement started in the formerly British area of Somalia, exacerbating the divide. By the late 1960s democracy was beginning to crumble and 1969 saw a coup d’état, and the Supreme Revolutionary Council take over government—who promptly prohibited the existence of political associations (other than, presumably, their own) creating a one-party state.

In 1991 the north declared its independence as Somaliland—this hasn’t to date been recognised by any foreign government. Civil war led to the presence of UN peacekeepers. The 1993 Battle of Mogadishu, in which a number of peacekeepers were killed, became the basis for Black Hawk Down. A further secession took place in 1998 in the northeast, with proclamation of the state of Puntland—not seeking full independence, this region considers itself an autonomous state. Another secession followed this with a southwestern region declaring the state of Jubaland—its status is unclear.

More recently conflict broke out in 2006, internally and with Ethiopia, and hasn’t been resolved.

On the bright side, Somalia has one of the lowest rates of AIDS/HIV in Africa.

Today’s poem is by Ismael Hurreh and comes from the Wole Soyinka-edited Poems from Black Africa.


Foreboding

Solo:
My brother you sealed on us your sighs of hypocrisy
My brother with magnetic eyes for these cactus faces on us
And for these wrinkles of contempt on the face of Somalia
We will chant you necklaces of dry bones:

Chorus:
What we are (we should have said)
Are empty voices in the dark
Emptier than our chants in crises
What we are (we should have said)
Are dangerous rats scuttling in dry paths.

Solo:
My sophisticated brother with mountains of kinsmen’s power
Our gory spears awaiting spears of other tribesmen
Arrayed with blue loincloth and white star-shaped shields
We will chant you hymns chanted to Sheikh Abdulkadir
Mourning the death of corn fields at your hands
Your hands sublimer than distant clouds
When dry mouths gape and drop dead of thirst.

Chorus:
Do you not hear these blind drums in our voices?
Do you not see us prostrating with blind hearts?
Do you not find us cold-blooded?
Do you not fear us causing plagues?

Solo:
And at the onset of pain pangs of Africa’s birth
We have heard you fluting ominous tales
Behind bank doors barred to us
We have heard you counting biles and eyes

Of dead bats and mouths drivelling your praises
And soon we will see you dismantling our kidneys
In parlours for diplomats
And in conjugal parties.

—Ismael Hurreh
from Poems of Black Africa