Saint-Martin and Sint Maarten

Once more—for the final time—we are in a holding pattern on 11 November.


11 November is Saint Martin’s day: it’s the feast day of Martin of Tours, and is the day that the French territory of Saint-Martin and the Dutch Sint Maarten—that share the island of Saint Martin in the Caribbean—jointly share. Happy Saint Martin’s Day!

So the island is, as mentioned, divided between the French and the Dutch. The Dutch side has a larger population (50,000) than the French (35,000). Population density is pretty intense—especially when you add in the fact that about 1 million people visit the island a year.

So, Columbus actually claimed the island first. And yes, it was Columbus that named it Isla de San Martin. In 1624 the French started to cultivate tobacco in the French Quarter, while a few years later, in 1631, the Dutch started to collect salt. In the years from 1633 to 1647 the Spanish began to build a military fort, but then destroyed it and left the island. The French and Dutch zones were first settled on in 1648.

Then there was a bit of a period of jumping around—the French occupy it all. The Dutch occupy it all. Occasionally the British take a turn. And then from 1816, the French and Dutch zones resumed.

The Dutch officially adopted the spelling “Sint Maarten” in 1936, and more recently Sint Maarten signed an agreement with the Netherlands on status aparte. On the French side of the equation, in 2007 Saint-Martin became a separate overseas collectivity.

Oh—and the division of the island? Apparently there are stories about it, including a popular story that involves a race deciding the matter. As in, each community chose a representative, and they had to walk across the island from different points. (They weren’t allowed to run.) Where they met, a line was drawn across the island, connecting their starting point with their meeting point. Okay, that sounds crazy. But I love it. Apparently the French side is larger because the French guy moved faster than the Dutch. There’s also a claim that the French guy drank wine before and the Dutch guy drank beer… and the “restorative qualities” of the wine let the Frenchman walk faster. Yeah. I don’t think so either.

I found today’s poem online here. It’s by Lasana M Sekou. Enjoy!

worker island

i did not see lantau island
the buddha brilliant regime in sun
lighting the way where tourists stray
to shake sticks at their future
for a fated read of each of the same other difference
but cynthia say,
            there is a fishing village beyond the fray
            where  older heads pear out bamboo windows
                        children ride bicycles too
the sea and the scene is this
what we all see to be seen
as pierced longing and longing
eternally at each other’s side
  
and we are always with people …

—Lasana M. Sekou

US Virgin Islands

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

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

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

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


Charcoal




I



black man bent under

tropic sun

burning lignum vitae

for charcoal

to boil morning tea.



black woman's hands 

carry coal

for Rotterdam's steam

a cent a bucket buys

little sugar

her cracked yellow feet

mark the earth

step by step 

under Danish flag.



Millions of years ago

in another tropical forest

trees, flowers, plants

absorbed sun

day after day

then sank into earth's bosom

metamorphosed to coal.



The Dannebrog lowers a past 

“We must progress” captions 

the coal carrier's dreams of

golden roads and electric light.

Blackbeard's pieces of eight

pay for Old Glory.



II



But those were old photographs 

viewed in a wrinkled olive book

The Danish Isles of the West.

Now kodak snaps the Red 

White and Blue cooly

waving over tin shacks 

sweltering in blistering sun

for bargain hunter’s

trade magazine.



While in the dark 

a spector’ scream

of freedom's flight

Queen Mary, the one-legged 

slave jumped to her death

on the jagged rocks of the sea



The stories chant, 

“Look to the water!”

reminding us of her yearly 

apparition and a bloody sea



And we weep to the drums

that beat somewhere else

to marching rats and fighting roaches

while old man tends his coal pot

and Lennox Avenue screams identity.

—Patricia M. Fagan

Niue

I’m guessing Niue is place most of us don’t think about often. A small (population is under 2000) island in free association with New Zealand, closest to Tonga, Samoa and the Cook Islands. Think about it now.

While this year Constitution Day celebrations are happening on 16 and 17 October, I’m writing this to mark the anniversary of the new constitution.

Okay. So people arrived in Niue from Samoa around 900 CE. About six hundred years later more settlers came from Tonga. So far, strictly Polynesian. During this time—until the early 1700s—there wasn’t really a national government. Chiefs and heads of families controlled things. But since there was influence from both Samoa and Tonga established, kingship was introduced into the mix. The first king of Niue was Puni-mata.

Contact with the wider world? Well, this is Oceania, and so James Cook can be credited with the first European sighting of Niue. He tried to land there—three times—but the Niueans refused him. Oh, and Cook called the island “Savage Island,” the name that stuck until relatively recently when the original name Niue became known on the world stage.

Now this is Oceania, so where discoverers… discovered… it is inevitable that sometime soon after missionaries much follow. Yes, the London Missionary Society agrees with me, and some missionaries showed up in Niue in 1846. And, yes, after a few years Christianity had spread. Way to proselytise.

And where did the British empire come in? King Fata-a-iki, who reigned from 1887 to 1896, was worried about the colonising spirit of the times, and offered sovereignty to the British in 1887, judging them more benevolent than many other colonial powers. It took till 1900, but soon the island was a British protectorate—for a year. In 1901 New Zealand annexed the island. And then 1974 saw self-government.

Something you probably didn’t know? Niue is one of the world’s largest coral islands. Also—weird fact—apparently the soil in Niue is really unusual, geochemically speaking. The soil has a “surprisingly high” level of natural radioactivity—no uranium, but some other radionucleides. Now apparently this kind of distribution happens on very deep seabeds and the theory goes that a combination of extreme weathering of the coral and a short-lived submergence in the sea 120,000 years ago caused this. That’s so interesting. Oh, and there’s been no evidence of ill-effects health-wise in the local population.

Today’s poem is actually a segment of a longer work by John Pule, who is considered to be Niue’s most important writer and artist. It comes from Nuanua: Pacific Writing in English Since 1980.


from The Shark that Ate the Sun

Earth. Time’s curfew desires only our attention
the landscape mirrors another reflection of
the other sorrow known on earth as life

the ocean is left behind as we walk to a dream
war is not known on earth but in the isolated
image human beings once ran naked in caves
carved out a history of a new birth
embellishing art to become blood and beauty
when mysteries poked at our brain, leaving holes,
and we dropped whatever we had in our hearts to
look at each other in amazement, and whoever possessed
the desire to live forever will never die, but we die, and suffer,
and the shock has long been forgotten
because the word death is only a gossip

and not when we carelessly describe to our
children how we love on earth, which ceases to
fascinate, and falls about our bodies like confetti

and standing naked to surmise a tranquil field
a city appeared to haunt the waterhole where
animals browse and drink. Years later
the remains of that lone figure are dug up
the position odd, the hands covered the eyes as if to
hide from some horrific vision, maybe a
revelation of what was seen is what we now live in
did the vision kill whatever his name and tribe is
staring out over the tranquil field?

the question glittered as centuries battled
in iron and the rain washed the blood away to
settle in small dark cities, which we tasted and
the smell caused a strange evolution to take
place in our emotions, and the change dressed
us in miraculous nights, the stars challenged
our answers

if they could glimpse into this present day
they would die in the presence of hate and emotion
that sleeps in every country

we contemplate distant illuminations,
yet the difficulty remains in
recognizing the true human
which is a dream the firstborn forgot and hopes
this earth will never feel

goodbye, said the captain. Goodbye, said the islander.
Next time test in your own country
perhaps New York or Paris

—John Pule
from Nuanua: Pacific Writing in English Since 1980

New Caledonia

At my high school there was a choice between learning French and learning German. I spent a long time trying to make up my mind. In some way I’d spent all of primary school dreaming of learning French, then one day, I suppose, waltzing around fields of lavender, munching on baguettes and brie. Then, I chose German. (Anyone who knows me will realise this kind of last minute “let’s jump in the other boat!” reaction is not entirely unusual for me.) A lot of my classmates thought I was crazy. The reason? Well, I suppose some of them just wanted to speak French, but it was more that every second year the school organised a study trip to New Caledonia. As in: let’s go to the beach! Oh, and we’ll speak French. There are no German-speaking Pacific islands for Australian schoolchildren to go visit. (I fully enjoyed my experience learning German. Though I do want to go to New Caledonia.)

Which brings me to New Caledonia—yes, it’s a collectivity of France, not it’s own country. But it does get its own day—on 24 September this collectivity celebrates New Caledonia day. Oh, and while there is one main island, as there usually is in these countries and territories of the South Pacific, New Caledonia consists of several islands. With a place on the UN’s Committee on Decolonisation (I have to admit I didn’t realise this committee existed) list of Non-Self-Governing Territories, New Caledonia is due to hold a referendum on statehood sometime after 2014.

Settlers—the Austronesian Lapita people—arrived around three and a half thousand years ago, joined over two thousand years later by Polynesians. The French were a distant dream until Captain Cook came along, sighting the main island (Grande Terre, a feat of imaginative naming) in 1774. He’s the one that gave the territory the name New Caledonia—Caledonia comes from a Latin name for the area that is now Scotland. For some reason James Cook thought the island looked Scottish—well, like the northern islands of Scotland. Don’t ask me.

The French took over in 1853, when the French decided to give Britain a run for its money, trying to rival British holdings Australia and New Zealand. Not to be outdone by the likes of Magwitch (ooh! a Dickensian reference!) France decided that the south Pacific would also do nicely for its convicts, and over nearly sixty years sent 22,000 convicted felons to penal colonies in New Caledonia. So, not only did Europeans give the locals smallpox, measles, dysentery, syphilis, leprosy and the flu, they also brought in criminals. That’s very caring. What’s more, for a long time the indigenous Kanak people were subject to the Code de l’Indigénat, which I’m told is like apartheid, but, you know, in French.

An independence movement started in New Caledonia in 1985—the national liberation group (Front de Libération Nationale Kanak Socialiste) started agitating for an independent state of “Kanaky.” In 1988 the territory saw a hostage taking in Ouvéa, followed by the Matignon and Nouméa Accords of 1988 and 1998 respectively. While the referendum on independence is still some years away, in the mean time the authority of New Caledonia in its own governance has slowly increased.

I found today’s poem, by Nicolas Kurtovich, online here. There are some more of his poems available on the same page.

Poem for the Fourth of May

In the middle of the night men came
To bring the news that two men were dead
Before dawn we will have left the house

Mourned and met friends
Through the forest and very ancient pathways
There are so many things to say names to not forget

And then the sun that had vanished for a moment will return
Different shining more strongly as if enlarged
By the life of those who have fallen

—Nicolas Kurtovitch
translated from the French by Yzabelle Martineau

Gibraltar

Gibraltar and the Gibraltarians. I am sometimes surprised to realise that this is still a British territory. I come across it from time to time—but usually in 19th century literature. In particular, a certain plot in Maria Edgeworth’s Harrington revolved around the behaviour of a particular character while he was with his regiment in Gibraltar. Let’s take a tour as Gibraltarians are celebrating their national day (as a territory). You probably think more about the Strait of Gibraltar than the place, right? It’s named for a formation known as the Rock of Gibraltar—and you know what that means? “The Rock” is not just the name of a bad film, but also a nickname for this home to nearly 30,000 people. It’s also known as Gib, but I don’t feel I know it well enough to be on such casual terms. So, the British in Gibraltar? Since the 1713 Treaty of Utrecht. 10 September is Gibraltar’s National Day—this commemorates the 1967 referendum with which Gibraltarians resoundingly rejected Spanish sovereignty.

Historically? Well, despite evidence going back to Neanderthals, what we really know starts with the Phoenicians who settled there about 3000 years ago. They were followed by Carthaginians and Romans, followed by the Vandals, before being handed to the Visigothic Kingdom of Hispania, and then collapsing under the Muslim Conquest. And this only takes us to 711 CE. That’s one popular rock.

Obviously anytime Spain and Britain were on opposing sides of a conflict, things got a little tense in Gibraltar—for instance, Spain got into the action of the American Revolution against Britain. This led to the “Great Siege of Gibraltar”—over three years of blockages until peace agreements began to be drawn up.

More recently, since the construction of the Suez Canal, Gibraltar’s strategic importance has increased—such that, for instance, in World War II the population was evacuated while the territory became a fortress.

When Spain was under Franco’s rule, Spain tried to press for sovereignty over Gibraltar. This led to a referendum for Gibraltarians. It’s another of those referendums whose results fascinate me: 12,138 votes in favour of retaining British sovereignty and a mere 44 leaning toward Spain. In 1969 the territory became autonomous.

Some people may remember Gibraltar’s biggest world headline in the last few decades when, in 1988, the British Special Air Service killed three members of the IRA who were there to plant a car bomb. Eventually the European Court of Human Rights determined this action violated the European Convention of Human Rights, though it also ruled that the slain IRA members were engaged in terrorism, so their families could not claim damages.

In the last few years Britain and Spain have been able to come to agreement over a number of longstanding bones of contention, and the British Government asserts that it “will never enter into arrangements under which the people of Gibraltar would pass under the sovereignty of another state against their freely and democratically expressed wishes.” Good for them.

Oh! And the only wild monkeys in Europe are found on The Rock—Barbary Macaques, to be exact. There are about 230 of them, and they’re gorgeous.

When I was hunting for a poem I found this piece—I know only that it was written by a World War II evacuee, examining their nostalgia for The Rock. I found it online here.

‘’Mid pleasures and places
Though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble,
There’s no place like home.’

‘Peñoncito querido
lejano Gibraltar,
el corazon herida
por ti se va a quebrar.
Que intacto Dios te guarde
para a ti regresar;
aunque volvamos tarde,
te amamos sin cesar.’

‘Gibraltar streets are silent
All gone those little feet
But their high-heeled tinkling clatter
On my heart shall ever beat,
As I stood at my embrasure
I hear those little feet.’

Easter Island

Tiny, remote Easter Island. Population? Under 4000. Small for a country that seems so famous to me—it’s the Moai statues scattered around the island. Who could forget them? And this entry is a strange one to me—on 9 September Easter Island takes the day off. What’s the anniversary? Well, it’s Policarpo Toro Day—or Annexation Day. In 1888 Easter Island was annexed to Chile. It’s mainly strange because, while there are plenty of other territories that are still under annexation, it’s the only Annexation Day I’ve come across. Most of the island is part of the Rapa Nui National Park, a world heritage site. Oh, and while annexed to Chile, the Rapanui people were confined to a settlement while the Williamson-Balfour Company rented the rest of the island for a sheep farm until 1953, and the Rapanui weren’t made Chilean citizens until 1966.

The name Easter Island comes via the first European explorer—Jacob Roggeveen (yes, in case the name didn’t tip you off, he is Dutch) came upon the island on Easter Sunday in 1722. Polynesians (and they are still currently more than half the population) currently call the island Rapa Nui or Big Rapa—there is debate about the islands “original” name. The suggestion I like? Mata-ki-Te-rangi, which translates as “Eyes that talk to the sky.”

And yes, when I opened with isolated, I mean isolated. Thousands of kilometres from Chile—and thousands of kilometres from Pitcairn island. When you’re measuring closeness to something by Pitcairn, we’re talking remote. But for a remote island its been through a lot—famines, civil war, eco-crisis… In the 19th century Peruvian slave raiders came and abducted people, violently. When some managed to escape Peru and come home, they brought smallpox. Clan wars didn’t help out. Nor did the first Christian missionary—to round out the smallpox from Peru, Eugène Eyraud brought tuberculosis with him.

And the Moai? Well I read that it would have taken a team of half a dozen men about a year to complete one. There are 887 known moais… That’s a lot of manpower. When Europeans first visited—and recorded what they saw—the statues were facing inland, over their clan lands—when clan wars erupted, most of the statues were cast down. Some have been re-erected in the last century.

I should also mention that annexation day isn’t the most important celebration of Easter Island’s culture: there is an annual cultural festival known as Tapati that began in 1975 which takes place for a few weeks around February.

Given my pause over the holiday in memory of annexation, I suppose it is a little strange that I have chosen a poem by the Chilean poet Pablo Neruda—and yet, I would have had trouble choosing another poem. I found it online here.

The Separate Rose 
(Easter Island, 1973)


II: THE MEN
The truth of my prologue is this: Down with sleazy romanticists!
with experts in the ineffable!
I’m just like the others: the Colombian lady-professor,
the Philadelphian Rotarian, the drummer
from Paysandú who cashed in a bundle
to get here. In a mishmash of languages, by dissimilar routes we all come upon: Silence.


VII: THE ISLAND
When the colossuses multiplied,
walked upright into their own,
peopled the island with stone noses
and lived to beget their descendants: children
of lava and wind, grandsons
of ashes and air, great footsteps
were heard in the island:
the hands of the wind,
the criminal cyclone,
Oceania’s persistency
never worked with such fury.

The tremendous, pure heads,

long in the neck and lugubrious,

with jawbones of giants, erect

in the pride of their solitude -

those presences,

preoccupied,

arrogant presences.

O lone, pensive dignitaries –

who would ever presume, who would dare to come close

with their questions, or challenge

those questioning images?

They are the spawn of those askers

who exceeded the narrow constraints

of the island, moved out, from its minimal waist

towards the whole of an ocean –
to the human beginnings of things, and their absences.

Some of the bodies will never assume their full stature, 

their arms shapelessly locked

into craters, asleep:

bedded down in calcareous rose,

never lifting their eyes to the sea, 

sleeping the leviathan’s horizontal sleep, 

stone larvae of mystery, 

they lie now as when flung by the wind when it fled from that country

and the breed of the children of lava was over.

—Pablo Neruda
translated from the Spanish by Bill Belitt

Tokelau

I’m guessing you don’t think about Tokelau very often—a territory of New Zealand in the South Pacific that consists of three coral atolls with a population of under 1500 people—and it looks like the population is declining. But you know it doesn’t take many people living in a small place for a few generations to develop a distinctive culture. The name Tokelau means “north wind”—previously the islands were called the Union Islands or Union Group. They became the Tokelau Islands in 1946, which was shortened to Tokelau in 1976. On 3 September this little corner of the world celebrates Tokehaga Day.

The islands were settled about 1000 years ago—most likely people arrived from Samoa, the Cook Islnads and Tuvalu.

I’m always surprised to find out these small islands in the South Pacific were (officially…) discovered earlier than Australia—while Captain Cook came to Botany Bay in 1788 (as pretty much any Australian schoolchild will tell you) Commodore John Byron made it to Atafu in 1765. And, hey, as well as getting discovered earlier, Tokelau didn’t have the waves and waves of massacres in order to be used as a penal colony. Bonus! Also, it seems like the window of being preached at by missionaries was relatively shortlived. On the downside, Peruvian slave traders came in 1863 and took nearly all of the able-bodied men to work as labourers—“nearly all” amounted to 253. Unfortunately they mostly died of dysentery and smallpox, and so hardly any returned home.

New Zealand law doesn’t really apply often—only specific enactments are made. The local enact their own laws, and with such a small population serious crime is rare, and there’re not prisons. Anyone who does act up will be publicly rebuked, fined or made to work—community service lives! These days, too, a lot of Tokelauans live in New Zealand, sending money to their families at home.

And, yes, even with less than 1500 inhabitants, there are still poets, or Pulotus—composers, or makers of songs. Today’s is by Ihaia, and it comes from Allan Thomas and Ineleo Tuia’s “Profile of a Composer: Ihaia Pulla, a Pulotu of the Tokelau Islands.” I found it online here.


Tiga te pouli

Tiga te pouli kautatago tiga te agi o te timu-a-toga
Kako au e fitoi atu ke pa atu kia te koe
Agi mai te laki momoka mai ma ua
Oi aue toku tino kua tatapa I te makalilia

However dark the night, however strong the timu-a-toga wind
I will still try to reach you.
The laki wind is coming, the rain is falling
And my body is shaking with the cold.

—Ihaia Puka

St Barthélemy

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

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

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

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


My Deery Honey

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

Montserrat

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

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

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

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

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


Behind God Back

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

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

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

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

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

—Howard Fergus
from The Oxford Book of Caribbean Verse

The Cook Islands

So, the Cook Islands celebrate Constitution Day on 4 August. We do appreciate a constitution, so let’s celebrate the constitution of the Cook Islands. Not one hundred percent familiar with the islands? The Cook Islands is made up of 15 small islands, and they are a self-governing territory in “free association” with New Zealand—this makes them what is known as an Associated State. 4 August is the anniversary of the instigation of self-government—this came about in 1965. Of course New Zealand is still part of the British Commonwealth, and so the official head of state of the Cook Islands is Queen Elizabeth II. “Cook?” Anything to do with a certain Captain? Yep. Though the Spaniard Pedro Fernándo de Quirós visited the islands more than 150 years before Captain Cook, landing on Rakahanga in 1606, Captain Cook’s visit had a greater impact. Of course, prior to all this, Polynesians settled the islands in the 6th century, migrating from Tahiti.

Cook arrived and explored the islands in 1773. He actually named them the Hervey Islands (can’t be too self-glorifying if you’re British) and it was actually a Russian that renamed them after cook, 50 years later. From 1821 missionaries began to arrive—from England and from Tahiti. These were the first non-native settlers.

After the settlers began to arrive, in 1858 the Cook Islands were brought together as a state—called the Kingdom of Rarotonga. Thirty years later they were officially made a British protectorate—they requested this status—and they also established a federal parliament. In 1901 they were passed onto New Zealand.

It hasn’t been all smooth sailing since self-government came about—Albert Henry, the first premier of the islands, was first knighted by Queen Elizabeth in 1974, but when five years later, he was found guilty of election fraud he lost both the premiership and his knighthood. After Tom Davis took over the premiership in 1979, he was knitted in 1981. A few years later, the Cook Islands declared themselves a neutral country—reason? They thought New Zealand wouldn’t really be in a position to defend the islands, and so they decided they would no longer enter a military relationship with any country.

More recently? Another prime minister ousted from government. In 2002, Terepai Maoate received a vote of no-confidence. Harsh. The new Prime Minister was Robert Woonton. After some reports of voting irregularities in the 2006 elections, Jim Marurai became Prime Minister of the Cook Islands. To all intents and purposes the islands are independence, but New Zealand does actually still have responsibility for overseeing their defence, in spite of the Cook Islands’ neutrality.

It was only in five years ago that Cook Islands Maori, or Māori Kūki 'Āirani – or, for that matter, Rarotongan—became an official language alongside English. This is in spite of the fact that nearly 90 percent of the population are either wholly or partially of Polynesian ethnicity. Way to respect the indigenous population…

And a poem? Today’s poem is “Turtle and Coconut” by Cook Islander poet Kauraka Kauraka. I found it online here. It appears in Fire in the Sea: An Anthology of Poetry and Art, a collection that reflects the Pacific Islands. When I borrowed a copy of the book I found it fascinating.

Turtle and Coconut

One stormy night a pregnant turtle
crawled ashore to lay her eggs
under a coconut tree
As the turtle’s nose
touched the coconut roots
the tree said, “Stop your tickling.
I’m trying to sleep!”
“Forgive me Coconut: can I lay my eggs
among your roots? It’s no longer safe
out in the open sand.”
Coconut knew
some of his roots would be severed
to make a hole for the eggs.
“You can dig your hole Turtle,
but promise me that only I
can eat the egg-shells of your young.
Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
Four thousand eggs were laid between the roots
and the coconut tree cared for them
as if they were his own.

—Kauraka Kauraka (1951-)

Bermuda

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Wild Jasmine

Her water never broke

but the tides came in nonetheless

she smelled it months away at sea

approaching with the casual assuredness 

of longtail flights

but loudly and repeatedly announced

with sea-fondled baubles 

deposited on the north shoreline

the sudden inexplicable scent of wild jasmine

the phosphorescent aqua seas of her dreams

yes the tides did come

two new lives uncovered in the pink sands

unnoticed in the blue distance

the glistening tail and shadow of doubt

submerging and heading out to open ocean

—by Alan Smith

Wallis and Futuna

What’s that? You’ve never heard of Wallis and Futuna? Or maybe you’re laughing at me because, to tell you the truth, I never knew anything about Wallis and Futuna before either. I think I may have heard of Uvea—the Fakauvea name for the Wallis Islands, but I’m not one hundred percent sure of it. But there are around 15,000 inhabitants of the islands. They deserve their shout out. The islands are an overseas collectivity of France—since they have their own territory day to celebrate their culture, I pulled them out of the lump of French territories celebrating 14 July and gave them their own spot. The Wallis and Futuna Islands are in the South Pacific—the lie between Fiji and Samoa. Got the geography straight? Good. Grab some coconut juice.

Like a lot of this region of the world it was in the 17th and 18th centuries that these island were first visited by Europeans. Wallis—no, the name doesn’t sound very French—is named after the Brit Samuel Wallis, explorer extraordinaire. The locals got along fairly happily, even after French missionaries converted them to Catholicism, until in 1842 they asked for French protection: part of the population had rebelled, and the other part didn’t like that much. In 1887 this relationship was formalised when the queen of Uvea signed off on the treaty that official made the islands a protectorate. Until 1959 the islands were under the authority of New Caledonia—then they voted to go from protectorate status to territory status.

So there’s still a monarchy in place. In fact, traditionally there are three kings—the King of Uvea, the King of Alo and the King of Sigave. The recent king of Uvea, King Tomasi Kulimoetoke II, got in some hot water when he gave his grandson sanctuary after said grandson was convicted of manslaughter. Not happy with the French legal system he declared that his grandson should be judged under tribal law. The population did not, shall we say, whole-heartedly concur. There were riots, resulting in victory for the pro-Tomasi side. Still, it comes late in the game—Tomasi Kulimoetoke died in May 2007. Officially there was a six month mourning period, and mentioning a successor was taboo. It’s only this month that a new king has been announced—the role goes to Kapiliele Faupala. He joins King Visesio Moeliku of Sigave. I don’t think there’s currently a King of Alo—one short of a triumvirate. Oh, and the King of Tonga will be helping celebrate the coronation of Faupala. I haven’t heard whether Nicolas Sarkozy was invited.

A poem? Yes, a poem. I was afraid it would give me some trouble, but I tracked one day. It’s from the book entitled Uvea: Uvea. (This is currently my favourite book title out there.) I found it online here. Our poet is Virginie Tafilagi.


Poem

Below the chest, around the waist
Tattooed bark-cloths float and swirl.
Around the ankles and the wrists
Woven lafo intertwine.
The adorned stand up, move forward,
The mala’e becomes silent.

If the just word is joyous
Let it now be spoken!

           On the bold canoe, still unmoving,
           Our tears soar to the firmament:

                       In our bodies and in our hands,
                       Crushed against the silence
                       Lies the impatient hope
                       Of the sons and daughters of the land of Uvea.
                                   
         Let those who no longer feel it
         Reconquer its memory
          Let rip the shrouding veils!
          May the boldest delight in shattering
          The keen-edged flight.
                                     
                        In our hearts and in our souls,
                        Sailing ceaselessly on,
                        Is our mighty dream
                        For the children of the land of Uvea.

            Let those who do not share it
            Put out to sea.
            Be wakeful if you will!
            Let the toughest delight in taming
            The crashing trade winds.
  
            May the oar of the Ocean
            Rid us of them forever.
            May the blood-red Earth
            Breathe fire into us at last.

The choirs have struck up the ancient songs
Which alone the Sons of the earth yearn to hear,
The chanted Word governs all their dances
Toward the sacred forest where the voyage begins,

Now!

—Virginie Tafilagi

Puerto Rico

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

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

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

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

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


Under the Knife

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

—Judith Ortiz Cofer
from The Oxford Book of Caribbean Verse

Guam

On 21 July Guam celebrated Liberation Day. Liberation? World War II, my readers. Guam was occupied by the Japanese between December 1941 and July 1944. Incidentally, alongside the economic boost provided by US military bases, tourism is another big industry—tourists mostly come from Japan. Guam is one of those Pacific islands. It’s beaches look very pretty. I would like to visit it too…

Now I know you all suspect that, despite my interest in national identities, national histories and national literatures, I am really quite shallow. It was on your mind, right? So, to prove you right, I first became aware of Guam when I watched (many, many times) the movie Girls Just Want to Have Fun. The opening scene? A very young Sarah Jessica Parker on her first day at her new Catholic girls’ school. Explaining that her father is in the army, so she’s moved around a lot. “Eleven different schools—but the uniforms always the same. Even on Guam.”

So the island has been inhabited for about 4000 years—the earliest arrivals were the Chamorros. (It’s thought they came from Indonesia.) As I’m reading and writing I’m finding out that what’s known about the Chamorros comes, aside from the usual archaeological evidence, largely from folklore, observations from visiting scientists, and the accounts of Jesuit missionaries. I’m always strangely pleased when the Jezzies get involved—and far too irreverent. Apologies.

Hey! There are Latte Stones on Guam. Look them up. They kind of rock.

Oh! Someone introduced the cane toad to the island. That is really not a good move, based on the Australian experience of the critters. (My brothers used to find really big ones and put them on my head and shoulders when I was two or three. Trauma.)

And then, say hello to Ferdinand Magellan, who visited in 1521 while circling the globe. Forty years later the Spanish claimed the island and began to colonize, making the island part of the Spanish East Indies, and governed from the Philippines.

Then the United States came along in 1898 with the Spanish-American War. After taking control of the island, Guam became a station for ships going to and from the Philippines. In 1950 Guam was established as an organized territory of the US, and the people became US citizens.

And a poem? I’ve got one for you… “Poakeiiukala” by Emelihter Kihlend. I found it online here.

Poakeiiukala

although given as gift

it never really belonged to you

hand-carved, dark brown wood

with sharp teeth, ready

even a curve in the body

propelling it forward for attack

it swam here in the suitcase

all the way from Porakied

nearly drowning in your cold room in Pauoa Valley

but it found me and now it breathes

— Emelihter Kihleng

Poakeiiukala – To feel sorry for; pity. Poake means shark. A section of Kolonia, Pohnpei where people from Kapingamarangi atoll live. The Kapinga people make and sell beautiful handicrafts in Porakied.

Saint Pierre et Miquelon

Moving through the little slices of French territory around the world, I’ll forgive you for perhaps forgetting Saint Pierre et Miquelon—I’m guessing there are a lot of people who couldn’t point to this island group on a map. Caribbean? No. African? No. Oceania? No. The islands—population not much over 6,000—are just south of Newfoundland. It’s French status is a hangover from the colonial territory of New France. And so it celebrate’s France’s Fête Nationale.

Before the Europeans arrived, it’s thought there were some prehistoric inhabitants—most likely the same group that inhabited Newfoundland. And then Europeans arrive, some time around the early 16th century.

The British attacked the islands a few times—they also took possession of them for the fifty years from 1713 to 1763. After the French took the islands back there was about 15 years of peace before they got passed back and forth a few more times. After 1815 they stayed with France—and the islands were quite prosperous, until the local fishing industry began to decline.

Things did perk up a bit with prohibition—the islands were, apparently, a handy spot for those smuggling alcohol. No mention of pirates in my reading, but, honestly, smugglers are just as good.

Also interesting is the fact that the guillotine was only ever used in North America once: in Saint-Pierre. The guillotine used was shipped from Martinique, and didn’t arrive in working order. Then there was trouble finding an executioner—eventually a recent immigrant agreed to the job. Want to see it? Go to Saint-Pierre’s museum.

It didn’t find a poem by an islander—I guess with such a small population that’s not so hard to believe. But I found a piece by William Henry Drummond—he was born in Ireland and moved to the French portion of Canada. He published a couple of books in the 19th century, and in this poem, illustrating the dialect of English-speakers in the region he lived, he mentions the islands a number of times. This is a small portion of what is a much longer piece. I found it online here.


from The Rose Delima

You can sew heem up in a canvas sack,
     An’ t’row heem over boar’
You can wait till de ship she ’s comin’ back
     Den bury heem on de shore
For dead man w’en he ’s dead for sure,
     Ain’t good for not’ing at all
An’ he’ll stay on de place you put heem
     Till he hear dat bugle call
Dey say will soun’ on de las’, las’ day
W’en ev’ry t’ing ’s goin’ for pass away,
But down on de Gulf of St. Laurent
     W’ere de sea an’ de reever meet
An’ off on St. Pierre de Miquelon,
     De chil’ren on de street
Can tole you story of Pierre Guillaume,
     De sailor of St. Yvonne
Dat’s bringin’ de Rose Delima home
     Affer he ’s dead an’ gone

—William Henry Drummond

Réunion

I’m not sure if today marks an independence overdose, or a non-independence overdose—after all, we’re celebrating all these territories today because they are part of France, and they don’t have a separate day on which they take a holiday in order to celebrate their own culture. Instead, Fête Nationale rolls around. Réunion is another of these territories—or, actually, it’s a department of France, and it also uses the Euro. Some trivia? It was actually the first region in the world to use the euro, as its time zone put it ahead of the rest of Europe in introducing it. The first purchase? A bag of lychees. Réunion is between Madagascar and Mauritius. The official flag is French. The flag at the left is the flag proposed by the Vexillological Association of Réunion.

While there Arab sailors had visited the island previously (They named it Adna Al Maghribain) when Europeans arrived they found no-one living there, and the Portuguese named it Santa Apollonia. And then the French arrived—people came over from Mauritius and the island was administered from Port Louis. The French first called the island Île Bourbon, but in 1793 they renamed the island Réunion, after the fall of the House of Bourbon. (Pesky revolution…) It didn’t stick the first time, though—in 1801 the island was renamed Île Bonaparte (I wonder who that could have been in honour of?) and, when the British captured the island in 1810, they decided to keep calling it Bourbon. Even when France got it back in 1815, it stayed Bourbon until 1848, when it switched back to Réunion. Yes. It’s confusing. But after 1848 it hasn’t changed names anymore. Phew.

In recent years, Réunion hit the news when it was hit by an epidemic of chikungunya—similar to dengue fever, the disease hit over a quarter of a million people on the island—around a third of the population.

Réunion’s poem is by Danyel Waro—I found it online here. The introductory note comes from the same website.


Explosion 
This song makes a parallel between two systems of dehumanisation in Réunion: one older, 
acknowledged and better known–slavery, the other more modern, more subtle–exile and de- 
culturalisation through departmentalisation. 
 
 


Banm Kalou Banm 
 


Way out at high sea, they say, it used to be 

The big white lords ran their ships above board

On those ships long ago, they say, way below 

Were many black men – like so many beasts 
 


They roll to the right

They bathe in their blood 

They roll to the left: 

The sea's endless flood 
 


Banm kalou banm! 
 


The oldtimers say when the overlords ruled
Even black brothers killed one another 

Driven to rage by the pain they endured

The red of the surge when the flamboyant blooms 



The blood dries at last over our past 

But the sore festers still – the boil never burst 
 


Banm kalou banm! 



Even now, you see, we skip overseas

Jobless, we look elsewhere for work 

Soon, you see, I'll be taking a plane

To leave my homeland – Reunion Island 



Immigrants today, slaves long ago

Paris is pretty, so all our young go… 
 


Vronm kalou vronm! 



The tyrants today aren't like they were then 

The whip they crack is their snobbish talk 

They make their money with their pretty French 

Not one bit of Creole in all their fine speech 

Meanwhile their people fight to cry out

To hell with your school, we'll find our own way! 
 


Banm kalou banm!


—Danyel Waro

Mayotte

You all remember Mayotte, right? The little group of islands and islets in the Mozambique Channel? Between Madagascar and Mozambique? I thought so. As another overseas collectivity of France, it too celebrates Fête Nationale—next year its voting on becoming an overseas department or territory. And of course the French flag is the official flag, but there's also a local (unofficial) flag.

So Mayotte and Comoros share a common history—Mayotte used to be part of the nation of Comoros. So, in 1500 the Mawuti sultanate was established on the island, followed only a few years later (1503) by the first observation by Europeans. The Portuguese. In the 19th century Mayotte was conquered and passed hands a few times, before, in 1843, it was ceded to France. When the Comoros archipelago held its referendum on separation from France, Mayotte decided to keep its ties to France, while Comoros became an independent nation. Comoros claimed the island was part of their nation, but when a draft resolution was put before the UN in 1976 to recognize Comorian sovereignty over Mayotte, France vetoed it.

It’s been a complicated situation for France—apparently the numbers in favour of Mayotte staying part of France were significant. On the other hand today there’s a general tenor of international governments keen to see former colonies cut their ties with their colonizers.

What I’ve found from Mayotte is a section of a folktale—it’s from an article on Comorian folklore, since the background to the region’s myths and legends is the same. It was quoted by Masseande Chami Alaoui in his “Genres of Comoran Folklore,” from Journal of Folklore Research, Vol 34, No. 1 Jan-April 1997.


Baye Kwembe

There was a man called Mwalimu Guwu. He came from Ikoni, that is why he was called Mwalimu Guwu.

There was a man in Mbadjini, that man, he was a king, he had been told, a wise man had said to this king, “If a child is born this year, that is the end of you.” So he found a woman who was sick in a house there. She stayed there, and she had a child, and they took that child, and that child was called Bayi Kwembe, because when he was born, they wrapped him in cotton right away, put a blanket around him, put him in a box and threw him into the sea, and he came back in one place. He came back…he came back at Ikoni, and it was a fisherman of Ikoni who fished him out. They opened the box and found this little guy.

He stayed, he stayed a long time, and one day—he was born at Fumbuni—after they took him and sent him there, he stayed a long time. He had sores from the cotton they wrapped him in there. That’s why they called him Bayi Kwembe.

One day, a man said to him, “Do you know that sometimes they fight down there on the shore?” So he left, he took himself a piece of a paddle…and he broke up the battle. There was an old man. He said to him, “Don’t you know where you were born? You were born in Mbadjini. If I conquer this country for you, what will you give me?” He said, “Every time I win, I’ll give you some land.” So Mwalimu Guwu came to fetch him and they went off to war. With every victory they divided up the regions.

Martinique

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

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

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

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

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

Lost Body

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

          I shall command the islands to exist.

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