Tonga

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

Some things about Tonga:

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

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

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

To the Last Viking of the Sunrise

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dominica

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


from Mayhem and Romance in a Cropduster Fuselage

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

—Laurence Lieberman
from The Creole Mephistopheles

Federated States of Micronesia

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Love Stick

A very fine piece of tangantangan

Carved with tender care

Way better then Cupid's arrow

Or the Roman spear.

Precious in a way

It stands as a symbol
Like a birth name

For a certain individual.

It defines love, to those who know its mark.

It denies love, to those who don't own it.

Yes, it is a tool for amorous communication

And no, it is not a weapon of mass destruction.

Lucky for those who can feel its unique arts,

For they will invite their lovers.

Tangantangan is not just a stick

It's a fine piece of Chuukese carving for girls to pick

And take delight in.

—Engelbert Danis

Antigua and Barbuda

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)

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)

Fiji

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

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

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

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


Ballet for a Sea-bird

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cuba

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

Tuvalu

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘dancing pili’ (for Lemi Ponifasio)

sipping bitter ava swooped before hesitant hands 

fa’afetai tele lava – may God bless Mau 

and those who partake in their creativity 

appropriate solemnity spotlight 

highlight this performance within performance 

cupped with both hands 

shell to mouth 

eyes and eyes and eyes 

rank and recognition 

a Herald article, Samoa Observer, Samoa Times 

Gulf News and Waiheke Weekly 

rank and recognition and eyes and eyes and eyes 

she only half knows

but Carol Hirshfield doesn’t believe in half and part 

‘afa’ mirrored in ava 

I am Maori Hirshfield stated 

Its like being a little pregnant – you can’t 

quoted the Herald 

‘afa’ in ava 

like siva except steps are copied not known 

and hands mimic borrowed stories 

stiffness a traitor 

like a pili caught in head lights 

white powder crouched man 

naked in knowing 

half wall crawl of black 

jet engine noises drum in foreign in primal meaning 

caved water droplets hollowing sound 

mau dancers slow dance and sweat as 

suited puppet natives jerk their siva too 

others march in blue and white mau lavalava 

white shirt curt hands stands attention 

to Master’s voice 

Lemi’s leading and pili’s pleading ignorance of this dance of death 

of life of light of paradise

the ceremony ends 

centred ava bowl moves into shadows
spotlight dims

she has a pili dancing in her heart


—Selina Tusitala Marsh

Palau

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

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

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

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

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

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


Weather, Seasons, Time of Day, and Miscellaneous

The wind sleeps in the eskiik bush

Pushing out the leaves

Opening the trees

Jelling of the fruit

Year-east

Year-west

Disposing the group at Ngetkeuang

Like the crotch of an aristocratic woman

The sun is throwing projectiles

Mark of the spirit

The heavens are good

Water is without cost

Cyprus

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


I Worshipped Too Many Gods

1.

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

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

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

2.

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

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

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

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

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

Malta

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

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

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

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

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

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


The Twentieth of September

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

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

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

Like a note that has no wish to end.


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

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