Chile

A friend of mine was in Chile earlier this year, and while there he went to a bar that is in what I believe used to be Pablo Neruda’s house. While he was there he admired a stuffed penguin they had behind the bar. Completely unrelated to the Independence Day Project I’ve had a few opportunities to work with penguins, so I was excited—though also sad, since it was stuffed—to hear about this penguin. Now, along with the Atacama Desert, it’s going to be one of the first things that always comes to mind when I think of Chile. The Atacama Desert? Why yes. I’m in love with deserts, and after the deserts (or dry valleys) of Antarctica, the Atacama is the driest desert on earth. I’m not the only one impressed—NASA uses the desert to test instruments for future Mars missions.

But this is not just about penguins and the Atacama. It’s about Chilean independence, though the date is a little strange. In 1808 the Spanish throne was usurped by Napoleon’s brother (as in Bonaparte) and this was not a popular move in Chile. On 18 September 1810 Chileans formed a national junta in Ferdinand’s name (the heir of the deposed king) and proclaimed Chile a self-governing republic in the Spanish monarchy. Soon the autonomy thing caught on, and full independence followed in 1818.

The twentieth century wasn’t very kind to Chile—prior to Pinochet’s rule there were still military coups and unstable governments. Which isn’t at all to say the whole century was a mess—there were long periods when democracy worked. The dark cloud we now remember is Pinochet, whose regime engaged in serious human rights abuses. Tens of thousands were tortured, and around 30,000 fled the country. There were thousands killed.

I know that you’re waiting for a poem by Neruda, but I decided to go with another poet—I used Neruda for Easter Island not long ago, and every so often I like to switch it up, so to speak. So today’s poem is by Nicanor Parra, and comes from The Vintage Book of Contemporary World Poetry.


The Pilgrim

Your attention, ladies and gentleman, your attention for one
      moment:
Turn your heads for a second to this part of the republic.
Forget for one night your personal affairs,
Pleasure and pain can wait at the door:
There’s a voice from this part of the republic.
Your attention, ladies and gentlemen! You attention for one
      moment!
A soul that has been bottled up for years
In a sort of sexual and intellectual abyss,
Nourishing itself most inadequately through the nose,
Desires to be heard.
I’d like to find out some things,
I need a little light, the garden’s covered with flies,
My mental state’s a disaster,
I work things out in my particular way,
As I say these things I see bicycle leaning against a wall,
I see a bridge
And a car disappearing between the buildings.

You comb your hair, that’s true, you walk in the gardens,
Under your skins you have other skins,
You have a seventh sense
Which lets you in and out automatically.
But I’m a child calling to its mother from behind rocks,
I’m a pilgrim who makes stones jump as high as his nose,
A tree crying out to be covered with leaves.

—Nicanor Parra
from The Vintage Book of Contemporary World Poetry
translated from the Spanish by W. S. Merwin

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

Uruguay

25 August is Declatoria de la Florida in Uruguay! Yes, let’s celebrate Uruguayan Independence, and perhaps thinks about the fact that apparent Uruguay is the second smallest country in South America after Suriname—French Guiana is also smaller, but it’s still an overseas department of France. And that also makes it the smallest of the Latin South American countries. Oh, and they like soccer in Montevideo, or so I hear.

Hey—Uruguay is not corrupt by South American standards! Only Chile is less corrupt these days. That’s a nice index to have. There’s also an index that lists what it considers the 28 full democracies in the world—Uruguay might come in last on that list, but it makes the list, and that’s something.

So we don’t have the legacy of the Incas. We don’t have tangos and sambas emerging from the streets. (Well, actually, there is Uruguayan tango… though it’s not as well-known as its Argentinian cousin.) The Charrúa were one of the better known tribes of native Americans, but they were pretty small, as were other hunter-gatherer tribes. With a lack of gold and silver lying around, the Europeans weren’t terribly interested for a while either. Then the Spanish thought they’d bring in a few cattle, and that took on. Nice stuff. Later the Portuguese built a fort.

Montevideo? It dates from the early 1700s. Its natural harbour made it a natural competitor with Buenos Aires back in the day.

And independence? Well, it took longer to come to Uruguay than to other areas of the Americas. The movement started in earnest in 1811, but it took till 1828 to gain it’s formal recognition. The official declaration came on 25 August, 1825—the delay on recognition was because of the Argentina-Brazil war, then underway. When Britain brokered peace between the countries, it led to formal proclamation of Uruguay’s nationhood. I’ll drink to that.

Today’s poem, “For Tonight” is by Roberto Echavarren and comes from the Anthology of Contemporary Latin American Literature 1960-1984.


For Tonight

Lovers do not speak to each other
when they listen to the radio.
They listen in silence.
They say what they do not say.
A gush of mercury
trembles on open lips. Smoke is forgotten.
Trills gather in corners of the piano bar
open to the phosphoric beach in stillness.
The music said what they had to hear
to let their abandon grow.
They are a single scene without a fixed limit.
Now a haunch curves
as much as the other wants but did not expect,
as much as the radio
prescribes.

—Roberto Echavarren
translated by John Neyenesch
from Anthology of Contemporary Latin American Literature 1960-1984

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

Bolivia

6 August, and we’re heading to Bolivia to celebrate their National Day, the anniversary of independence from Spain. The honouring of Simón Bolívar continues with the naming of this country. (Okay, the bright among you didn’t need to be told that, did you?) Bolivia? South American, one of the landlocked. I want to go there. Immensely. I’ve heard wonderful things about La Paz—when I was travelling in Central America I met a lot of people who were heading either north or south—just passing through Panama. I quizzed everyone heading up from South America. Oh, and Bolivia has two capitals—the constitutional and judicial capital is Sucre. The administrative capital is La Paz.

When know about the Spanish in South America. They came, they saw, they conquered. Well, not absolutely everywhere, but you get the general idea. The conquest of Bolivia took place between 1524 and 1533—in nine years, to all intents and purposes, the deed was done. They called the area “Upper Peru.” They were pleased with the silver they could export to make money for the Spanish empire. Obviously they put the locals to work. Still, these days 55 percent of the population is Amerindian, and a further 30 percent is Mestizo. If only a lot of other countries retained this kind of indigenous population…

It took 16 years for independence to become a reality: from 1809 to 1825 the country was engaged in their War of Independence—this war, too, was named for Simón Bolívar. Oh, and revenue from silver started to go into the coffers of an independent Bolivia throughout the 19th century. In the 20th century their export of tin took over as the important industry.

I feel like we sometimes forget the size of Bolivia—out of mind, out of…relative size. We all know Texas is pretty big, right? Well, Bolivia is about one and a half times the size of Texas. And it’s beautiful. The altiplano looks spectacular. There’s the Andes, the Amazonian rainforests, and Chaco. And let’s not—ever—forget Lake Titicaca, which is on the border between Bolivia and Peru.

We remember, too that Bolivia shares its border with Peru—sits just inland from Peru. It also borders Brazil, Argentina, Paraguay and Chile.

A poem? Don’t mind if I do. May I present “I Do Not Know” (I don’t, you know) by the poet Blanca Garnica. It was translated by Wayne H. Finke, and comes from Anthology of Contemporary Latin American Literature 1960-1984.


I Do Not Know

I do not know
from whence
I came to stop 
in this autumn train,
the wing, tango
of the butterflies
and the path chews
the smile, 
up the street, 
from Monday to December.

How much this tour journey, unplanned,
weighs down!
But the complaint
withers
in the throat
and 
ticket and stamp
go 
from the arm already.

Ah, I do not know.
I do not know why
the soul
became a pupil
for the night
of tulips;
nor why I scratch
the ashy voice
of an absent guitar.

And,       yet
I go on:
the ineffable face
of a cloud
keeps me company,
and at twelve noon
and twelve midnight
the rain
unfurls.

—Blanca Garnica
translated by Wayne H. Finke
from Anthology of Contemporary Latin American Literature 1960-1984

Peru

I was wondering recently why it is I’ve always wanted to go to Peru—long before I knew about Incas and Machu Picchu. It took me longer than it should have to figure it out. It’s all about Paddington Bear. I loved Paddington growing up, with his duffle coat and wellies and marmalade sandwiches. Before landing at Paddington Station with his beat up old suitcase, Paddington had voyaged from “Darkest Peru.” That phrase is so evocative. From 28-29 July Peru celebrates its Independence Day (the declaration was made on 28 July 1821, but I suppose it really is worth celebrating for two days) and I know Paddington would want you to join me in raising a glass to all those Peruvians.

Peru has been inhabited by humans for something like 13,000 years. Prior to the emergence of the Incas, thee were plenty of other cultures, including the Mochica (responsible for the Moche “pyramids”) and the Nazca, to whom the Nazca Lines are often attributed.

Then came the Spanish—in 1532 conquistadors beat out the Inca Emperor Atahualpa and under Francisco Pizarro’s leadership brought Spanish rule to the country. For a while Spain was pretty happy with the revenue Peru provided, but in the 18th century silver production dropped off. The Spanish Crown decided to increase taxes to wring some extra money out of the country, and Peruvians responded with rebellion. None of these were successful in the 18th century.

Then came Simón Bolívar in the 19th century. After other wars of independence had been fought, Bolívar and José de San Martín came along with a military campaign, bringing about Peru’s independence.

It hasn’t all been smooth sailing—in the War of the Pacific (1878-1883) Peru lost to Chile, which resulted in the loss of some of Peru’s territory.

In the 20th century there has been a coup—in 1968 General Juan Velasco Alvarado led the Armed Forces against president Fernando Belaunde. After 7 years in power, Velasco was forcefully replaced in 1975. More recently there’s been concern over debt, inflation, drug trafficking and political violence. The scene has improved since the 1980s, but accusations still emerge—while things were improving between 1990 and 2000, the 2000 elections were considered fraudulent.

Today’s poem is by César Vellajo—while there were only three books published while he was alive, he’s on any greatest hits list for twentieth century world poets.



The Eternal Dice

For Manuel Gonzalez Prada, this wild and unique feeling—one of those emotions which the great master has admired most in my work.

God of mine, I am weeping for the life that I live;
I am sorry to have stolen your bread;
but this wretched, thinking piece of clay
is not a crust formed in your side:
you have no Marys that abandon you!

My God, if you had been man,
today you would know how to be God,
but you always lived so well,
that now you feel nothing of your own creation.
And the man who suffers you: he is God!

Today, when there are candles in my witchlike eyes,
as in the eyes of a condemned man,
God of mine, you will light all your lamps
and we will play with the old dice…
Gambler, when the whole universe, perhaps,
is thrown down,
the circled eyes of Death will turn up,
like two final aces of clay.

My God, in this muffled, dark night,
you can’t play anymore, because the Earth
is already a die nicked and rounded
from rolling by chance;
and it can stop only in a hollow place,
in the hollow of the enormous grave.

—César Vellajo
from Modern Literature of the Non-Western World
translated from the Spanish by James Wright

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

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

Argentina

Argentina. Home of the tango. Let’s thank them by remembering that on 9 July they celebrate their Independence Day—in 1810 there was the May revolution, then in 1816 Argentina declared its independence from Spain. I suppose most people know that the name derives from the Latin for silver. Or maybe that’s most people that either took Latin for some reason or another, or who memorised the periodic table. (I was a fan of both.)

Okay—I want to go to Patagonia. It’s one of those spots that my mind romances about. And I’m fascinated—and a little puzzled—to read that the first signs of human presence in Argentina are in Patagonia. I guess that means they came down through Chile and then wandered across into Argentina. Part of the northwest of the country was conquered by the Incas. In the northeast the Guaraní people did stuff with yuccas and sweet potatoes. And the Pampas and Patagonia were regions for nomads. And I don’t just want to go to Patagonia. I’d love to wander all over the huge area of Argentina.

Buenos Aires was established in 1580. Most immigrants clustered around Buenos Aires or wandered onto the pampas, which the rest of the area was largely the province of the indigenous peoples. These days the country is considered a nation of immigrants—from all over. Only 2 percent of the population identify as Argentine Amerindian, while only a further 8 and a half percent are mestizo. Europeans from all over came in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.

I want to go meet gauchos on the pampas.

And Argentina gave the world Jorge Luis Borges—I know most people, when they think of Latin American literature, think of Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Pablo Neruda. Not to take away from the achievements of either (Neruda, in particular, I love) but Borges is astounding. His stories (now his best-known work) are weird and appropriately labyrinthine; his essays are perceptive and wonderful; and among his poems are some gorgeous, gorgeous pieces. Best of all, all of his work has recently been put out in three lovely volumes, divided among these genres.

And, yes, I’m keeping it short. Go out and read Bruce Chatwin on Patagonia. Read history. Read other travel writers. Lust after your own adventure in the region.

The poem I’ve chosen is—nor surprisingly from what I’ve written above—by Borges. I was introduced to this poem by the teacher, poet and priest Peter Steele, and I’m incredibly grateful to him for that. The last few lines are among my favourite (I should add the caveat that I have a rather large selection of favourites… I’m sure you’ve all figured out by now that I’m a poetry junkie) lines, and such a beautiful, perfect ending to this piece. It is of course available in collections of his poetry, but I also found it online here.



Matthew XXV: 30

The first bridge, Constitution Station. At my feet
the shunting trains trace iron labyrinths.
Steam hisses up and up into the night,
which becomes at a stroke the night of the Last Judgment.


From the unseen horizon
and from the very center of my being,
an infinite voice pronounced these things—
things, not words. This is my feeble translation,
time-bound, of what was a single limitless Word:


“Stars, bread, libraries of East and West,
playing-cards, chessboards, galleries, skylights, cellars,
a human body to walk with on the earth,
fingernails, growing at nighttime and in death,
shadows for forgetting, mirrors busily multiplying,
cascades in music, gentlest of all time's shapes.
Borders of Brazil, Uruguay, horses and mornings,
a bronze weight, a copy of the Grettir Saga,
algebra and fire, the charge at Junin in your blood,
days more crowded than Balzac, scent of the honeysuckle,
love and the imminence of love and intolerable remembering,
dreams like buried treasure, generous luck,
and memory itself, where a glance can make men dizzy—
all this was given to you, and with it
the ancient nourishment of heroes—
treachery, defeat, humiliation.
In vain have oceans been squandered on you,
in vain the sun, wonderfully seen through Whitman’s eyes.
You have used up the years and they have used up you,
and still, and still, you have not written the poem.”


—by Jorge Luis Borges
translated from the Spanish by Alastair Reid

Venezuela

Venezuela is another country that’s familiar to me from the Risk board: since I occasionally get anecdotal, why stop now? Back in the 80s my family played Risk a lot—one of my brothers is amazing at it, and beats everyone unless all players gang up on him. (The ganging up strategy has caused a few upset boards in our time…) Anyway, the top of South America is represented on the Risk board by Venezuela instead of Columbia. South America is easy to hold on the board, North America is not. The bottom of the North American continent is represented by the territory of Central America. On the other end of the isthmus is Venezuela, according to Parker Brothers. So, there were a lot of battles over Central America coming from both the north and the south. Our family nickname for that area of the board was “Ronald Reagan’s Playground.”

Venezuela—or, to be exact, the Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela. They’ve gained their independence a couple of times, but on 5 July they celebrate their Independence Day. This commemorates their 1811 independence from Spain. Later, on 13 January 1830, the country declared its independence from Gran Colombia—this was recognised fifteen years later on 30 March, 1845. But getting out from Spain’s control was of course the major moment they celebrate now. It’s neighbours to the east—Guyana borders it—are considered to be more Caribbean than South American in flavour. Venezuela has a Caribbean coastline to the north, and includes a lot of islands in its territory. But it also has a heavy Spanish/South American influence—let’s think of it as Latin American with a bit of Caribbean floating into the mix.

There have been people in Venezuela for at least 15,000 years, but when the Spanish arrived from the 16th century, systematic killing of indigenous peoples began. (These days about 5 percent of the population is indigenous—31 indigenous languages are spoken.) It was here that Spain established their first permanent settlement on the continent of South America. Until the 18th century the country was part of the Viceroyalty of New Granada, which was made up (roughly speaking) of Venezuala as well as Panama, Colombia and Ecuador. From being a Viceroyalty, in 1776 it became a Captaincy General. (I’m learning these terms for the first time—fun!) A Captaincy General was an administrative division used by the Portguese and Spanish empires. It was overseen by a—you guessed it!—Captain General.

But it was a Captaincy General for long—those upstarts starting a series of uprisings until the 1811 declaration of independence kicked off the Venezuelan War of Independence. Unfortunately a natural disaster got in the way—in 1812 an earthquake struck Caracas (the capital, if you’re brushing up) and the first Venezuelan republic fell apart. It was quickly replaced by a second Venezuelan republic in 1813, but that didn’t last long either. But then Simón Bolívar pitched in, and with victory in a few battles independence came about. Of course, having freed a few countries, Bolívar then created Gran Colombia, and in 1830 a new independence movement started.

In the 20th century pro-democracy movements got the military out of politics for the most part, and the discovery of oil deposits helped the country out financially. Following World War II immigrants came to the country from Europe too.

Since the 1990s, Chávez has been a presence. He had one unsuccessful attempt at a coup in 1992 and was jailed. Then in 1998 he was elected president—the office he still holds. Chávez’s policies have attracted controversy: there’s support, there’s derision. He was the victim of a coup in 2002, but his supporters—including many soldiers—called for a counter-coup, and Chávez was back in power after only 2 days. The attempted coup, and short-lived government of Pedro Carmona, has created tension in Venezuela’s relationship with the US, who recognised the two day (unconstitutional, obviously) government of Carmona. There’s obviously a lot to be written about Chávez—and a lot has been written both for and against him. I wish I had the time to dedicate to getting a better picture of the current moment in Venezuela…

The poem I have found from Venezuela is by Guillermo Sucre, and comes from Anthology of Contemporary Latin American Literature 1960-1984. Enjoy!



Not Keeping Silent

Not keeping silent but making silence flow
is what makes us younger

neatness is not concentrated: it is cast

closer and closer, farther and farther, each time
more     each time less

in the snow-covered meadow, only a green circle under
the maple of tan, wrinkled leaves

birds of Morris Graves: resistance to inclemency:
zen birds

praise of life: reconciliation with death

Is it not shameful already to speak so much of life and death?
speak of something else: for example: of not having anything else

to speak about expect life and death.

—Guillermo Sucre
translated from the Spanish by Wayne H. Finke
from Anthology of Contemporary Latin American Literature 1960-1984

Guyana

Guyana, or the Co-operative Republic of Guyana celebrates independence on 26 May. Guyana, Guyana. It’s such a beautiful name. Independence from the United Kingdom came in 1966, followed in 1970 (on 23 February—celebrated by Mashramani-Republic Day) by the establishing of Guyana as a republic. The name Guyana comes from an Amerindian word meaning “Land of many water.” The capital is Georgetown—and when I told one of my friends I was going to Georgetown (University, DC) he looked up Georgetown online, and had visions of me living in Guyana.

There are jaguars in Guyana.

Beyond being a beautiful name, it’s the only country in South America whose official language is English, though it also recognises the languages Guyanese Creole, Akawaio, Hindustani, Macushi, Wai-Wai, Arawakan, and Cariban. I love reading the names of languages I hadn’t heard of before this project. It’s generally considered a Caribbean nation, as its culture is similar to that of the English-speaking Caribbean.

So, before the Europeans dropped anchor around 1500, Guyana was peopled by Arawak and Carib peoples. The Dutch were the first to establish colonies there (Essequibo, Berbice, Demerara…ah, Demerara sugar) before the British took over in the late 18th century. This was formalised when the Dutch ceded the territory in 1814.

Recently, it has the unfortunate association with the Jonestown massacre at the Jonestown settlement in northwestern Guyana created by the Peoples Temple.

And, I love this: escaped slaves formed maroon communities before the abolition of slavery in 1834 meant that many came into urban areas.

Today’s poems is by the Guyanese poet Martin Carter, who died in 1997. He was a pre-eminent poet of anti-colonial radicalism. Due to his association with the movement for independence he was jailed in the 1950s, and following his release remained active in the movement—in 1965 he was a member of the delegation to the Guyana Constitutional Conference in London. His best-known poem is a protest poem from the 1960s entitled “I come from the nigger yard of yesterday.” For this project I have chosen the earlier poem “Old Higue.” From his book The Hill of Fire Glows Red, I found it online here.

                            Old Higue

                  Old Higue in the kitchen
                        peel off her skin—
             mammy took up old higue skin
               and pound it in the mortar
                 with pepper and vinegar.
                 "Cool um water cool um
                 cool um water cool um"
        Old higue come back in the kitchen
                 "Cool um water cool um"
       She grab the skin out of the mortar
                 "Cool um water cool um"
     She danced merengue when the pepper
                       burn up her skin—
         dance merengue when the pepper
                       burn up her skin
             "skin skin you nah know me
             skin skin you nah know me"
      She danced merengue when the pepper
                       burn up her skin.

—Martin Carter
from The Hill of Fire Glows Red, 1951

Paraguay

Paraguay, Paraguay… For some people “Timbuktu” is the place-name that inspires romantic visions. For me, it is not one but two places that have been in my mind for years and years, as the farflung corners I want to visit: Paraguay is one of them. (Botswana is the other, if you’re curious; and, more recently, add Patagonia and Svalbard.) To tell the full story: when I was ten, and very serious about music, I went to a music camp where the Australian harp-maker Andy Rigby visited us. While there, he told us about the harps he had picked up on his travels: harps from Paraguay and Botswana.

Paraguay’s Flag Day falls on 14 May—I’ve noticed that most of the Latin American independence days are clustered around September, so I’m interested in this different date. Paraguay actually celebrates for two days: 14 May is Flag Day, then 15 May is Independence Day. I’ve decided to post on the former, because independence was actually declared (from Spain) on 14 May in 1811—I want to mark that anniversary, and I don’t think it’s cheating when they still celebrate on that day.

Europeans arrived in Paraguay in the 16th century, and the city of Asunción was founded in 1537 as a settlement that eventually became the center of a Spanish colonial province, as well as a important site for Jesuit missions. I’m sad that immediately accessible sources don’t give much information about pre-Columbian history of the region—only that it was inhabited by the seminomadic Guarani
-speaking tribes prior to European contact.

Following the emergence of Paraguay as an independent nation, the government of the country has apparently been marked by authoritarian government and wars with neighbouring regions. 1989 marked the start of a transition to democracy.

Geographically? It’s a landlocked country (bordering countries: Argentina, Bolivia and Brazil) and it straddles the Tropic of Capricorn.


Today’s poem was written by Rodrigo Díaz-Pérez, and comes from the Anthology of Contemporary Latin American Literature 1960-1984.


Memories

I left Paraguay
one clear January day.
The sun bit the watersheds
of turbulent rivers.
The land of the dreams
of all the silences
so quietly
went on adding new dimensions
to the frame of my forge.

And today appear
solemn colors
disappeared,
vaguely touching some corner,
some burned corner
lost forever
on the long journey of no return.

My heart, my pulse,
my eternal ardor,
Oh chronological tortures
of blinding afternoons.
And when I arrived he said:
“Don’t say, brother,
that you departed.
You will not depart, brother,
though you may leave.”

—Rodrigo Díaz-Pérez
Translated from the Spanish by Wayne H Finke
from Anthology of Contemporary Latin American Literature 1960-1984