glossia
creative modern languages journal
autumn 2011 issue 1
glossia
creative modern languages journal
how does your language inspire you? cover photo Bourgogne, France Robin Cowie
p.4 ‘Flamenco’ Marc Heddebaux translation by Alexander Murphy
p.6 Die Fantastischen Vier review by Lara Tinay
p.8 Lago Verde, Bolivia Lucy Alvarez
p.10 Tamerisk Park from Sparce Earth, Vasilli Aksenov translation by Rob Durham
p.15 Venice travel article by Emilia Morano-Williams
inside‌
p.18 Le Louvre, Paris Will Cobley
p.20 Postcards from Siberia travel article by Frances Garsed
p.24 HC Lokomotiv travel article by Harry Engels
p.26 Wannsee, Berlin Rob Hall
p.28 Madagascar travel article by Anna Rowley
p.32 Tren a las Nubes - Salta, Argentina Lucy Alvarez p.34
in the next issue submission guidelines
special thanks to Juliane Fischer
edited by Hannah Scott
flamenco
Poem for the entire duration of a dance
I watched the travelling dancer Crucify a Flamenco And her arms cross To embrace the invisible And her dreams of stories Draped in hope Lie down at my feet I saw her body Thirsty for the unknown Burn all knowledge And her naked torso Armed with her soul Carry me away, unholy, In her throes of dread I saw her look Like black diamonds Shatter mirrors And her cutting tears Of mirth or of death Tear out my irises with a wretched glance I saw her rend bibles to pieces Choke their words Which spoke of what would follow Then stamp down hard On the chained shadow That crawled like a slave Leaving nothing to silence But the singular resonance Of stifled cries for more Leaving nothing to silence But the singular resonance Of shut up scum. Translation: Alexander Murphy
Poème du début à la fin d'une danse
J'ai vu la danseuse de voyage Crucifier un Flamenco Et la croix de ses bras Embraser l'invisible Et ses rêves d'histoires En drapé d'espoirs S'étendre à mes pieds Je l'ai vu son corps Assoiffé d'inconnu Brûler les savoirs Et son torse nu Armé de son âme M'entraîner, impie, Dans ses affres d'effroi Je l'ai vu son regard Diamant jusqu'au noir Briser les miroirs Et ses larmes acérées De rire ou de mort Arracher mes iris d'un regard putréfié Je l'ai vu déchirer les bibles Bâillonner ses mots Qui parlaient de l'après Puis frapper de ses pas L'ombre enchaînée Qui rampait en esclave Ne laissant au silence Que l'unique résonance D'encores étouffés Ne laissant au silence Que l'unique résonance D'une écume enclavée. © Marc Heddebaux 2007 http://www.y-voir-et-lire.com/lire/flamenco-poemedanse.htm
A
ls Ausländer muss man einige wichtige kulturelle Sachen kennen, um das deutsche Publikum besser zu verstehen. Bereits nach einigen Wochen in Deutschland hatte ich
die Fantasischen Vier, am Bigbox Allgäu, Kempten, Bayern
festgestellt, dass die deutschsprachigen Rapper Die
Fantastischen Vier zu dieser Liste gehören. Fanta4 kommen aus Stuttgart und sind bekannt als die Gründer des deutschen Hip Hop seit 1989.
Nach Kempten sind sie
wegen ihres neuen Albums 2010 „Für dich immer noch Fanta Sie“ auf Tournee gekommen. Ich hatte den Eindruck, dass man diese seit zwanzig Jahren bestehende Gruppe gesehen haben muss.
Als ich in die Bigbox eintrat, habe ich sofort gemerkt, dass ich eine der jüngeren Fans war. Die Plätze waren hauptsächlich von einem Publikum besetzt, das entweder in den späten Zwanzigern oder in den Dreißigern war. Man konnte sehen, dass das Publikum von Fanta4 mit der Entwicklung der Band auch erwachsen geworden war, und das steht als Beweis für eine treue Anhängerschaft, die immernoch eine Zuneigung für ihre liebste Teenagerband
hat. Es zeigt jedoch auch, dass die jüngeren Generationen nicht so sehr in den Bann der deutschen Hip Hop Dinosaurier geraten sind. Auf jeden Fall erwartete ich etwas
Großartiges und sie haben mich nicht enttäuscht.
Sie traten voller Energie zu dem Lied „Wie Gladiatoren“ auf die Bühne, das als Einleitungslied perfekt geeignet ist – sie
rapten den ersten Satz „Wir betreten die Arena - das wird kein Zuckerschlecken“ und es ging los! In der Anwesenheit der Fantastischen Vier wurden die Dreißigjährigen wieder
neunzehn und fingen an zu „pogen“. Diese besondere Art des Tanzen, oder Pogo machen, bedeutet ständig mit dem Kopf zu nicken, während man für schnellere Lieder auch herumspringt und je nach Lied und persönlicher Neigung, darf es stärker oder leichter sein.
Sie sangen eine gute Mischung aus alten und neuen Liedern, damit jeder teilnehmen konnte. Außerdem hatten sie eine unfassbare, unbegrenzte Energie und standen nicht einen Moment still auf der Bühne. Man würde nie ahnen, dass jedes Mitglied bereits über vierzig Jahre alt ist. Es ist auch wahr, dass frohe, lustige Lieder wie „Was Geht?“, „ Zu Geil für diese Welt“ und „Troy“ eine jüngere Seele verraten,
worin vielleicht der langjährige Reiz dieser deutschen Hip Hop Pioniere liegt.
Einige Lieder: Troy, MFG, Danke, Ernten was wir säen
Lara Tinay
lago verde, bolivia Lucy Alvarez
tamerisk park an extract from Vasilli Aksenov’s Редкие земли The main plant in Biarritz is the tamarisk. The boulevards, overlooking the ocean, are planted with them and there are even whole parks of tamarisks. They are such amazing trees! Imagine a gnarled, dark tree-trunk, with a crown of the most tender light-green needles. Many of these trunks, if not the majority, look as though they could have already reached their centenary long ago, as if eaten from the inside, either by parasites, or by some exceptionally harsh experience over many years. Distorted and opened-out, at times gaping like a gutted fish, they reveal vertical, cavernous hollows throughout their short (well, at most three to four metres) height. One is given the impression that they live exclusively on their own bark, obtaining nutritious juices through it and gaining exceptional stability (given the frequent gales). But lift your hand and stroke the tamarisk needles, this very delicate sort of dill; nowadays you will scarcely find such amazing tenderness and fresh romanticism anywhere. It’s something like our historical Komsomol.
What’s the Komsomol got to do with anything, the reader will ask in surprise, and all we can do is throw out hands up in despair. How can you ask? Indeed it is precisely on these gnarled trunks of deformed ideology that our youth grew up over so many decades. The Tamarisk, with its hollow and seemingly one-foot-in-the-grave black, trunks, forming an impassable labyrinth and its tender green needles, resistant to whirlwinds, creates a metaphor, which attracts poets. Baudelaire, the father of symbolism, considered this tree in his work “The Flowers of Evil” and a decade later Bryusov offered a translation of the tamarisk verses to the Russian reader: While the tamarisk odours, which dreamily throng The air, round my slumberous senses entwine, And mix, in my soul with the mariners’ song. Indeed hardly a century passed before the St. Petersburg native Naiman added his own contribution to Baudelaire’s tamarisk oeuvre:
Why, happy child, do you wish to see France, That over-peopled country, which suffering mows down, And entrusting your life to the strong arms of sailors, Bid a last farewell to your dear tamarisk? Such is our long-dead Komsomol: together with denial it also engineered attraction. Just let us remember the historic period of the post-Stalin “Thaw”. Quite unexpectedly the gigantic structure of the “Party helpers”, the murderous ‘Komsa’, in which, strictly speaking, the Revolution obtained cadres for its Cheka, began to sculpt its own boundaries of not entirely formal creativity, open “Youth Cafés”, sponsor shows of the avant-garde and patronise jazz. This is how the dill grew on the distorted trunks – and sometimes the wild parsnip. At the end of May 2004 I left Moscow for Biarritz, in order to start work on a new story. In November 2003 in this holiday town, standing on a seaside cliff above the eternally humming Atlantic Ocean (we shall simply call it the water basin or, even better, the reservoir), I managed to complete, through a force-majeure regime, the threeyear work, a sort of historically-themed fantasy. Now this place, naturally, seemed to me to be a symbol of another great work. On the completion of any long-standing work every writer experiences a profound confusion and deflation, or rather in reverse order, deflation and confusion, in some sense it is like the state of a punctured tyre or – so as not to over-dramatise the situation too much – a basket ball, losing resonance on the rebound. Sometimes it even seems that the half-hypnotic high of creation will never return to him with such vigour. Weeks pass, months of creative inertia, and suddenly at a barely detectable moment he feels that a period of peculiar inflation has begun. The experience of many years tells him, that it is time to acquire any little notebook, preferably with good, thick paper, a cardboard cover, wrapped in some smooth material and to start writing in it, this little notebook, all kinds of rubbish which will later draw him to the computer. I had arrived in the tamarisk town, with just such a little notebook, at my little house, situated on the slope of a blossoming hill six-hundred metres, as the crow flies, from the reservoir. I knew few people here, spoke barely a word of French, in other words I had arrived here in an environment of almost total isolation, ideal for creativity, if you don’t count the gaggle of forty long-tailed Basque magpies, flying into the garden to steal anything which shone in the sun, such as glasses or a cigarette case.
Opening the notebook and switching on the computer, still playful like a three year-old stallion, I began to rock on my chair, waiting for the first sentence to appear. It had not had time to do this before my mobile rang. It was LaRocque, perhaps the only one, whom I knew here, from the so called “Biarrots”, the local social elite. I had become acquainted with him last summer on the beach. Suddenly, in the middle of the hundreds of holiday-makers, I noticed a two-metre tall, sun-tanned, old man with large, drooping jowls and wrinkles which hadn’t even spared his armpits. Bending down and reaching out his once powerful hands in front of him, the old man was playing catch with his six year-old grandson. Because of his surprisingly strong throws I realised that this was the sight of a professional basketball player. “Sir, your passing reminds me of John Russell or perhaps ‘Doctor’ Irving,” I told him in English. He smiled laughed, “And you, I take it, are an expert.” That is how we met and afterwards we began to meet sometimes on the spit-covered, municipal basketball court near to the André Malraux College. The pupils of this establishment would usually loaf around with some marijuana near the tamarisk alley against the background of a wall with obscene graffiti. One young boy, for example, would fill his mouth with sweet smoke, and then pass it to a young girl in a prolonged kiss. By the time the kiss broke up it was the girl who breathed the smoke out. That is how a promising generation grew up. After hanging about in a state of cheerful merriment the guys would walk onto the basketball court and suggest that they do battle with the two old men in a game of “baskEt”, with the stress on the last syllable. I must confess we trounced them: I would throw from afar whilst LaRocque would get under the defence. However they did not seem to notice their own disgrace not to mention the fact that their whole game was reduced to running and doubledribbling. A couple of times LaRocque and I sat for a while in a café and I realised that I was dealing with a one-hundred percent playboy. Basketball was the sport of youth in the States, and because of this devilish game he had not received his Master of Fine Arts Degree and had to make do with a Bachelor’s. And what the hell were they awarded for, these American diplomas: in France they were just an excuse for brazen jokes.
Playing a couple of seasons in the NBA, well, for the so-called “Cavaliers”, and earning shed-loads of money – about a million bucks or ten million at today’s exchange rate – he went to Hawai’i and from there to the French Polynesia, that is to say Tahiti. He brought back a few surfboards from here to his native Biarritz. These boards were the real the deal, heavy, glued together from several species of Hawaiian wood, no match for the modern-day “hi-tech” boards. In fact it was namely LaRocque who became a pioneer of French surfing here, on which he spent his whole sun-, wind- and wave-filled life. Have you ever heard about the “School of LaRocque”? Basil, have you lived here nearly a year without hearing anything of the “School of LaRocque”? Just ask any young ‘schmuck’ from Scandinavia or the British Isles and he will tell you that he dreams about that school. Indeed LaRocque earned a fair amount with this business venture, and does not need money: he is the heir to a manure-with-chemicals business in Lorraine.
So this is all that tied me to this old man: a bit of banter, some flights of a tightly pumped-up ball, the dribbling resonant and unhurried in our old age. He had never phoned me before and I wasn’t even sure that I had ever given him my mobile number. “Listen, old chap,” he said (it’s interesting that this “old chap” accompanies you for your whole life from youth onwards and then suddenly becomes current again when the “chap” really is “old”, except in jokes), “why not come and have breakfast with a small group of my old friends at the Café de la Grand Plage? If you need convincing, I could say, that in the Reservoir in front of us eight graduates of the “School of LaRocque” will be strutting their stuff. Believe me, this is better than any basketball.” And so, on this very first morning of noble, creative intent I closed my laptop, put the notebook on top of it and covered the lot with an oilcloth so that the pangs of conscience should not leak out without meaning to. In order to calm this conscience I pretended to myself that this rather unexpected phone call had some bearing on my as yet unclear project. I must admit that during this process of “inflation” you already begin to look differently at what is going on around you even if it’s such an insignificant event.
The day was stormy and cold. Across the sky, crawling over each other and swirling, endless swarms of barbaric rain clouds swept by. Bowling along Avenue Victor Hugo towards the centre of town in my Renault Kangoo I saw, at the end of the street, titanic waves, attacking our cliffs. The stylish centre of Biarritz is reminiscent of part of the Champs-Élysées or some Rue de Rivoli, with the only difference being that its transverse streets open onto a rarely calm, but frequently raging ocean. Plunging from Hugo onto Clemençeau, which turns into Edward VII, I drove as far as the majestic Hôtel du Palais, turned left and went in the opposite direction along the Grande Plage towards the massive – although not lacking in any fascist, art-deco elegance – casino building. There I stopped my minivan in the underground carpark and went up to the ground level. The strong wind nearly blew me off my feet. The beach was empty. The famous Biarritz cliffs were steaming with water spray above the beating of the waves. They, that is to say the waves, were whipping across these mini-islands, that is to say the cliffs, and falling in spontaneous waterfalls. Adjusting to the gusts of wind I skirted around the casino and, holding onto my hat, set off for the Café de la Grande Plage, which normally places its tables right out onto the flagstones of the promenade. I must confess, I hardly expected to meet LaRocque’s group of friends at these tables in such bad weather, but after a few steps I saw a group madames and monsieurs, stylish members of society in scarves and cardigans, numbering no fewer than a dozen, casually settled in wicker armchairs. The sun-tanned old-man LaRocque rose up in their midst.
Rob Durham Read the original Russian text at: http://lib.aldebaran.ru/author/aksenov_vasilii/aksenov_vasilii_redkie_zemli
Many cities seem to inspire a specific type of weather. It is difficult to deny that London conjures up images of fog, St. Tropez of sun and Banff of snow. Yet, it can be even more exciting to see what happens
when the weather takes an unexpected turn. After all, how many people can say they have seen London in the snow, St. Tropez in the fall and Banff in the spring? Venice in the rain is a similar aberrant yet magical occurrence.
venice
The first few moments of waking up in Venice greeted me with a familiar, yet not unwelcome, noise rain. Most people would probably be disappointed to wake up on vacation and hear rain, yet I was excited. So long I had wanted to see Venice enshrouded by mist. In a city perpetually overrun by tourists, surely the onset of a cloudy day would persuade a few to remain indoors? Even if not, my goal, inspired by the ambiance of the day, was to see the least touristy areas of Venice I could reach. As I set out to explore that day my goal was to go off the beaten path. Inspired by the weather, I wanted to see the Venice that did not appear on postcards sold in the Piazza San Marco. At first I was daunted, after all in a city roughly the size of central park, where does one start to avoid people like themselves? Beginning to wander I soon found out how to do so. The answer was simply to start walking without having any real aim. I was not heading to Piazza San Marco, so I did not need to follow the small yellow signs that one can barely see anyway hanging in the corners of Venice. Getting lost in Venice is easy. Half the time when walking through the winding streets with an actual aim, one is lost, simply because there is no map that can possibly have the nooks and crannies clearly displayed. Venice cannot be illustrated in black and white on a sheet of paper, but can only be properly understood through walking the city and seeing it. Thus, I began to get lost.
At first, this lead me in a circle right back to my hotel. Yet, even this circle allowed me to see images of Venice that were not on the traditional yellow tourist signs. Since my hotel was on an edge of the city, I was able to see some of the newer buildings that have been built in Venice. The edges of the city are an excellent location for seeing the non-traditional tourist locations. As a traditional sightseer, one is more likely to get intimidated by the inaccurate maps of Venice and stay with the other visitors. Although this is one fine experience, after all there are reasons that the famous landmarks are famous landmarks, looking at a city, specifically Venice, through this narrow lens does not provide an actual representation. The second easiest thing to do in Venice, after getting lost, is to find something beautiful. Sometimes in the suffocating tourist centres one loses all sense of beauty, focusing instead of the overwhelming crowds. As I walked through whoknows-where on the edges of Venice I gave close attention to the small details. The little notes that make Venice beautiful. At first glance one may not notice the intricate ironwork on lamps hanging from buildings or the surprisingly uniform green of window shutters, but these small details exist and help to make up the full intense character of the city. Paying attention to the charming details of Venice got me thinking, is the tourist experience the only way to view a city that allows for taking photos. As I took in the image of a bridge butting up against an old brick wall, I wanted to hold onto the image forever. As a tourist I would have immediately whipped out my trusty digital camera and snapped away; however as a person trying to experience the city, I wondered if this exuberance at taking photos was holding
me back from really understanding the character of the city. After all, a place cannot be experienced from the viewfinder of a digital camera, but rather should be viewed with all of ones senses.
Giving it a few minutes of
contemplation, I decided to take the photo. Denying my tourist roots completely seemed wrong, I would simply make an effort not to photograph every little minutia of my day.
The next barrier a visitor to Venice attempting to stay off the beaten path must face is the arduous task of where to eat. Going too far in one direction will give you all places serving synthetic food catered to all kinds of global tourists; yet walking too far in the other direction will give you the same thing at an even
steeper price. Once again, sticking to the peripheries of the city seems to help in the, often futile, search for authenticity. When walking along a canal in the back depths of Venice near my hotel I nearly stumbled on a place that seemed to suit
all of my needs. It was not too expensive, despite the few snippets of English I heard (I was in Venice after all, I am not expecting to avoid this language!), the people seemed mostly Italian and, most importantly, the food looked good and authentic, not something overpriced and pre-packaged to gouge unsuspecting tourists. Sitting down and leafing through the menu I decided to try a more regional specialty. A key to good eating when in Italy is to select something from the region you are in.
Especially in cities frequented by sightseers, many
restaurants will serve everything and anything people think is Italian. Although these dishes may be more authentic than one could find back home, the only way to truly taste Italian cuisine is to sample the unique regional flavours. Thanks to this attention to detail, my meal was excellent and gave me the feeling that I was experiencing something unique; a perfect feeling to finish my rainy day in Venice. Although waking up in Venice is magical, an equally enchanting experience is falling asleep in Venice. Going back to my hotel room, feet sore from walking around the small city all day, I felt accomplished. I may have run into quite a few
tourists, taken several detours precariously close to Piazza San Marco and taken more photographs than I expected, but, by attempting to avoid the tourist crowd, I had been able to see Venice in a fuller image and to process what the
city might really be like. Getting into bed I left my curtain open a bit, just enough so as my eyes closed I could see the detailed architecture of the windows across the street. By avoiding the pre-packaged tourist places I had found my own little corner of Venice. Emilia Morano-Williams
le louvre, paris Will Cobley
postcards from Siberia
--- Sunday was a fairly important day in the Russian year – the festival of Ма́сленица (maslenitsa), which is the culmination of a whole week dedicated to pancakes! Jen and I were invited to some sort of celebration…and, apart from the fact that it was freezing and snowing and we had to stand outside
for over an hour, it turned out to be another entertaining and very Russian experience!
There were lots of people in traditional dress and funny costumes and masks reciting and re-enacting the story of maslenitsa. A man played the accordion while we had to crazily dance around in a big circle, clapping and singing and then play games such as running around on broomsticks, hitting each other with pillows on a bench, and trying to eat pancakes out of other people’s mouths.
The big finale was setting fire to a giant straw doll (the ‘lady maslenitsa’) to symbolically burn our sins before the start of lent. Unfortunately it was fairly windy and bits of the doll which were on fire blew towards us and nearly set several people alight. Russia isn’t really big on health and safety.
--- Another evening, we were invited to a big party for the boss of the
English department Khabiba’s husband’s 50th birthday. So we ate and drank at a leisurely place as various speeches, songs and games took place. And toasts – lots and lots of toasts. Every guest came out to the front to present the birthday boy with a present and make a speech about how wonderful he is. Most of them slipped him an envelope of money. Some went for bigger gestures - such as giving him a shotgun. People performed songs – some more coherently than others. Games included wishing happy birthday in as many ways as possible to the accompaniment of musical instruments, pass the parcel with a bag full of novelty hats and bras, and trying to tear a sheet of paper by sitting on it- all of which were awarded with little prizes and medals.
And of course there was lots of dancing! Belly dancing, conga dancing and plenty of slow-dancing with some very keen boys. The birthday boy seemed to be wearing fishnet tights over his trousers, and had created his own special type of dancing, best described as a new take on the ‘embarassing Dad’ dance. Almost all the people there had tatar roots, so we danced to traditional music and learnt some tatar
moves as well! Everyone was up on the dance floor joining in and it soon turned out to be another hilarious evening in Siberia.
--- Monday, the 9th of May, was one of the most important days in the Russian calendar – День Победы (Dyen Pobedy - Victory Day). All across the country
there are huge celebrations and parades to celebrate the end of World War II – or, more correctly, to celebrate the fact that the Russians won World War II. This appears to be a very important topic for Russians, as several students have asked me who I think won, and lots of them aren’t aware that the war we know started in 1939 (for Russia it only lasted from 1941-1945). Russians are very patriotic and very proud of and grateful to their veterans. May 9th is a chance for them to show this and celebrate their Russian-ness.
So we got up bright and early and met up with Zhenya, Asker and Ilnoor for the long walk into town. As we turned onto the main road the police turned up to block it off to traffic, and we joined the crowds of people walking along the road to the centre. The sun was shining and it was a beautiful day. As we got nearer the centre the crowds started to line the streets so we found our spot and waited for the parade to start. It was so nice to be involved in such a Russian celebration – it seemed like the whole city had turned out to
watch the parade, everyone had flags or ribbons (I bought myself a mini Russian flag to get into the spirit), almost every car has been decorated with flags or painted all over with the words ‘Spasibo dyeda, dlya pobyeda’ (Thank you Grandfather for victory!), everyone
was cheering ‘uraaaaaah!’ every 5 minutes and all the shops had huge posters wishing customers a happy victory day.
The parade began with members of the current military marching smartly in their
uniforms and occasionally bursting into manly song and saluting. This was followed by lots and lots of less orderly groups of a massive variety of people. First general well-wishers waving flowers and the victory day ribbons, then representatives from all the different universities in Tyumen, young sports stars, members of local groups and clubs – from environmentalists to Kazakhs, marching bands, dancers. Then there were the political parties, including the communists carrying giant photos of their beloved Lenin and that lovely friendly chap – Stalin.
We stuck it out to the very end (apparently there were 50,000 people taking part in the procession!) before going for a wander round the central boulevard, where we watched some of the performances on the big stage, including a balalaika orchestra, some amazing traditional Russian dancing, and a band who seemed to be trying, but failing, to recreate Abba. We finished off the evening by a lake on the outskirts of
town, where we enjoyed an amazing fireworks display as a final celebration of that single-handed Soviet victory.
Frances Garsed
ХК Локомотив HC Lokomotiv
On September 7th 2011, the plane carrying the Lokomotiv ice hockey team crashed shortly after take-off. The entire Lokomotiv squad was killed when the plane plunged into a river not far from the airport.
Ice hockey is one of the biggest sports in Russia and is easily as popular as football is in England. The team had won the KHL three times in its history and usually came in the top three. Yaroslavl was, and I’m sure still is, incredibly proud of its hockey team. The loss of the entire team and coaching staff has shocked the city. There are banners and posters all over the city marking the date of the crash and newspapers and news programs have talked of nothing else since. I was in an internet cafe when news of the crash first came through, and when I got home both my babushka and her husband were glued to the television. He came up to me and, leading me into the living room, said, “something absolutely terrible has happened.” We didn’t speak again for a couple of hours as they sat there taking in the still patchy news. I got the impression that if they had been any other nationality they would have cried but, being Russian, they didn’t. They sat there, completely still, in dead silence, for two hours. The next day a couple of us headed to the “Arena 2000″, the stadium where Lokomotiv played. Fans had been coming to the stadium since news of the crash began and there were already hundreds of flowers and scarves creating a make-shift memorial. As we arrived the crowd was pushed back and President Medvedev came and added a flower to the pile. The stadium had hosted the Global Policy Forum that week so security was already tight and there were police and militia everywhere. Everyone was very quiet and respectful and the sombre mood was broken only when a large group of fans marched up the steps to the stadium singing team chants and shouting in support of the one survivor, “We are with you Sasha Galimov.” He sadly died five days later.
Harry Engels
wannsee, berlin Rob Hall
Madagascar
A
ssise à l’avant d’un taxi dans les rues chaotiques
d’Antananarivo, en route vers la gare routière des ‘taxis brousses’, je me suis demandée ce que je venais de faire
en acceptant de venir à Madagascar. Non seulement la porte du taxi ne fermait-elle pas, non seulement fallait-il la tenir pendant tout le trajet, mais aussi étais-je convaincue
que nous allions renverser quelqu’un parmi la foule dans la rue.
Après une attente d’une heure et demie à la gare routière (les taxis brousses malgaches ne partent que complets), nous étions finalement en chemin vers la ville de Tsironomandidy, ou ‘Tsiro’ comme elle est connue là-bas, là où notre stage comme institutrices d’Anglais allait se dérouler. C’était un chemin qui s’avérait plutôt périlleux, étant donné que notre taxi brousse, survivant des années soixante, pouvait à peine grimper les collines raides de la campagne malgache. Néanmoins, après six heures de voyage porte à porte sur un siège aussi confortable qu’une
boite en métal, nous sommes finalement arrivées à Tsiro, toujours en vie. Forcément, l’arrivée de deux jeunes filles blanches a créé une foule à Tsiro: nous étions les
nouvelles ‘Vasas’ de la ville.
La ville de Tsiro, à environ 200 kilomètres de la capitale, est dans une des régions les plus défavorisées de l’ile. Selon le maire, qui nous a invitées à son bureau quelques jours après notre arrivée, la ville a aussi le taux
le plus élevé de grossesses mineures dans tout le pays. La
pauvreté
de
cette
ville
était
évidente,
et
extrêmement choquante. Je n’avais jamais vu une telle
pauvreté. Les égouts coulaient librement dans la rue, un endroit en plus où les enfants aimaient jouer.
Les
citoyens portaient des vêtements vieux et sales. De plus, ils étaient tellement minces et petits - je me sentais comme une géante à Tsiro, même si en Angleterre je suis assez petite.
La majorité des
malgaches ne gagne pas plus de 240€ par an - et mon billet
d’avion
seul
m’a
couté
environ
815€.
A Tsiro, nous enseignions à deux écoles publiques du lundi au vendredi, avec encore une classe pour les adultes à notre logement le soir. Tous nos élèves, bien que d’une mixité d’âge et de compétences très mixte,
voulaient vraiment apprendre l’anglais. Un de nos élèves, un garçon âgé de douze ans, voulait tellement améliorer son anglais qu’il venait aussi à nos cours pour
adultes le soir, même après trois heures de nos classes pendant la journée. J’espère que, un jour, ce garçon réussira à s’échapper de la pauvreté de Tsiro et trouvera un bon emploi à Antananarivo.
Afin de découvrir le ‘vrai’ Madagascar, celui que les touristes ne voient pas dès leurs hôtels de luxe, nous
avons essayé de nous intégrer autant que possible dans la vie traditionnelle des gens malgaches. Ainsi, un vendredi après-midi nous sommes allées au marché de zébus (les
vaches malgaches) à Tsiro, qui avait lieu tout les deux semaines. Nos deux voisins, qui avaient à peu près notre âge et qui fréquentaient aussi nos classes, nous avons accompagnés. Ensuite, ils nous ont invitées de prendre du thé avec leur famille. Nous avons prévu que ce serait un thé typiquement malgache et nous avons espéré pouvoir goûter des produits typiques de l’île. Mais, bien que leur maison soit de style tout à fait malgache, une fois dedans on nous a servies à boire du Coca-Cola et du Fanta. De plus, pour ajouter à l’ambiance, la chanteuse Shakira jouait sur la télévision au fond du salon, dans un clip plutôt provocant. Très typiquement malgache! A ce point là, on avait appris d’être prête pour l’inattendu à
Madagascar et que rien ne se passe comme on prévoit dans ce pays!
Malheureusement, toute bonne chose a une fin. Notre temps à Tsiro s’est écoulé avec vitesse. Avant de partir, nos
collègues de travail nous avons invité à prendre le dîner dans un restaurant malgache – et, après, nous sommes descendus sur un bar à karaoké. Là, il s’avérait que les
malgaches apprécient les ‘power ballads’, tel que les chansons de Céline Dion, et qu’ils adorent danser. Comme nous étions les deux filles blanches au bar - une nouveauté - tous les jeunes hommes voulaient danser avec nous. On m’a même demandée si j’étais mariée ce soir-là. Ce n’est pas une question qu’on me pose souvent dans les boites de nuits à Bristol!
Mon voyage à Madagascar, dans l’ensemble, était une expérience inoubliable. Bien sûr qu’il y avait des moments difficiles, mais je referais toute l’expérience sans la moindre question. Les malgaches étaient si gentils et le pays si pittoresque. Peut-être que la chance de voir les lémurs dans leur habitat naturel soit le meilleur moment de mon voyage. Si vous avez l’occasion, je vous encourage fortement de visiter cette île superbe qui est souvent
oubliée par la reste du monde. Ça pourrait bien être la meilleur décision que vous ne prenez jamais.
Anna Rowley
tren a las nubes argentina Lucy Alvarez
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