France: We Are the Champions, my Friends

Featured

3:20 pm. We were wandering in the Old Harbour of Fréjus, a nice little town on the French Riviera. I had a French flag wrapped around my shoulders like a cloak and my brother was wearing a roaster-like hat. On our way to the one bar that finally let us in, we crossed the path of more French flags and supporters than I’ve ever seen, including a man whose hair was tied in blue-white-red. Most bars were closed by a big sign claiming they were fully booked; the World Cup final, for which the French team was considered a favorite, would start in a bit more than an hour.

 

That French people were hopeful is the least we could say. There were omens, you see. The one and only French victory in the Football World Cup had happened precisely 20 years ago; in 1998 and 2018 alike, Israel has won the Eurovision, we’ve been in the Group C, we were opposed to Croatia… We had to win. And added to this, our national team was  cute, enthusiasm-fostering, and formed by a balance of older experienced players and young wisps. So were the supporters: some of them had hardly ever known any other World Cup, some others had obviously lived the 1998 one, but all of them were screaming and waving flags all the same.

 

It’s 10 pm now, and I’m writing seated on my flat’s loggia. Right outside, a man has just plunged in the normally out-of-bounds-by-night residency’s swimming pool, crying that ‘On est les champions’, ‘We are the champions’. We can still hear the cars’ klaxons on the other side of the town, and memories of this afternoon keep flooding in.

IMG_5600.JPG

Not even the skin-burning sun of the South could have deterred the French fans to be there, gathered in the bars on that day. Of the two hours I spent seated in that bar, I’ll remember the Marseillaise that we sang altogether at the beginning of the game; the joy of the supporters, that would literally jump from their seats and yell at the screen every time a goal was scored or a foul committed to one of our players. Behind us, a painted man was howling in a megaphone, claiming that we were the French people and that we would win, enumerating the names of the players or singing parts of the national anthem.

 

1-0, 1-1, 2-1, 3-1, 4-1, 4-2. Every time we scored, we would see young men running to the bridge linking the two halves of the Old Harbour, climbing to its very top and jumping in the water, their fists raised and a French flag flying behind them like a superhero cloak. Five minutes before the Final whistle, someone in the bar stood up and cried, ‘In five minutes, we’re World Champions!’.

 

And indeed we were.

 

Next thing I knew, people were hugging people they didn’t know; my brother fell in my arms, yelling ‘We’re World Champions!’. Around us, everybody seemed exhausted as if they’d play the match themselves. Dozens of people were running to the bridge, clapping and singing the Marseillaise; the streets were now colored by blue, white and red smokes, and when people came back into the bar to watch the team being given awarded the FIFA World Cup, half of them were wet and happily wringing their clothes after jumping in the Mediterranean Sea fully dressed.

IMG_5623

When we came back in town, surrounded by the continuing sound of the klaxons, it was to see people half-seated out of their cars, giving high fives to every passer-by in the streets, waving French flags and still singing. Euphoria, that’s how we can call it, and the young boy that nearly ran into me yelling that we were World Champions could not deny that.

 

So now we won, the day after our National Day. On the eve of that victory, the French skies were illuminated by fireworks. But what is to be expected, now? This victory smells like a midsummer night’s dream. As the Captain Hugo Lloris, also gamekeeper, very beautifully stated, this team and their victory have united the French people in joy and happiness, and it’s like this that we love to see our country. Tonight, France was a nation like I hope it could always been: proud, with its head held high, and positive in the sense that our identity was not built on the rejection of others, but on something great that we have achieved. Not only them, the players on the ground, but us, the French nation, in the sense of a body of people that hold together and stay together.

 

Even though that evening also contained its share of evil (hundreds of cars caught fire and many women were sexually harassed in the crowds), I do expect positive effects of this victory on France. Economically at first; this day probably made many bars’ turnover skyrocket, and football clubs will probably welcome more newcomers than they’ve ever dreamed of. French football players will have a new reference and an enduring trust on this Golden generation. The feminine football World Cup, that is taking place in France in 2019, will also, as far as I can imagine, be much more followed than it could have been without this triumph.

IMG_5646.jpg

Deep inside myself, I hope that it will go beyond. I’m however afraid that in a week, these French flags that have flourished on the windows through the past weeks will disappear, even though there would be thousands of reasons to keep them, as there are thousands of reasons to be proud to be French. Here’s one: two weeks ago, I watched the France vs Argentina game surrounded by young people who’ve survived cancer. When time came to sing the Marseillaise, they stood up hand on the heart, and simply told me after that, by its universal social security that paid for everything to heal them, ‘France has saved their life’.

 

We could be even prouder if we now could see immigration as what brought us the player that scored our 4th goal in the final. Kylian Mbappé is the second player in history who ever scored a goal in a World Cup final before the age of 20; for weeks now people have been replacing the Fraternité in our motto by his name, to make it ‘Liberté Egalité Mbappé’ – and his Father is from Cameroon and his Mother from Algeria.
A few hours after this victory, that made France – and its President – smile broadly and yell of happiness, I can only hope that its effect will hold as long as possible. Now I can only thank – that’s gonna be terribly cheesy and non-original, I’m sorry – everyone who made this possible. Our wonderful team first, who two years after our country was deeply wounded by a terrorist attack on the National Day, embodied its beautiful values with a talent pushed to its unexpected. The Croatian team, too; we say, in France, that winning against no danger is triumphing with no glory; and even though I do not quite agree with the two goals you scored on that day, your game made us shiver and be proud of playing against such strong opponents. And eventually, in advance, I’ll say thanks to the French nation: our 23 players, their coaches and their staff have brought that Cup home, but the show must go one. It’s our role, now, to decide what we want to make of this victory.

IMG_5643.jpg

 

France: Vive la République, et Vive la France!

Featured

It happened 229 years ago, at the early dawn of the first French revolution. On July 14th, 1789, the French people marched over to the Bastille, a prison that embodied the absolute authority of the King, overthrew its administration, and took hold of the weapons it contained. It was the very first time the people of Paris would get directly involved with the French revolution.

 

The 14th of July has since become our National Day. I usually spend it on holiday at the French Riviera, the Mediterranean coast in the Southeast of France. I have always associated that day to the sand cracking under my feet while I picnicking on the beach with my family. My brother and I would go swimming in the sea until we were freezing and then we would all go to the neighboring harbor to have ice cream. As the sun progressively disappeared, I would read under its declining light until my parents forbade me to go any further. We would make jealous remarks on how wonderful it would be to be on a boat instead of the crowded beach; and then, we would wait for the National Day fireworks, say that ‘They threw it later than last year’, that ‘It was one of the best ever, without doubt’, and then hurry up to the car to avoid getting stuck in the crowd.

It’s because of these kind of moments that I love my country.

 

I love France, because we have so many various landscapes. If each landscape corresponded to a planet as in Star Wars, a whole galaxy wouldn’t be enough to depict them all. From the heaven-like Riviera, in which the Sun has the scent of olive oil, lavender, and the sound of crickets; to the neighboring Camargue, with its deafening flamingos and its salt marshes. From the Northern Lille that looks like a colorful mash-up between Disneyland and St-Petersburg, to the greener-than-green Périgord in the Southwest, so full of forest that it looks black from above. We have a bit of England, Italy, Germany, Spain and so much more, as much as we have mountains and prairies, dynamic towns and deep countryside, rainforests and hot beaches.

 

I love France, because the country still wears the remains and the open wounds of its history. We still have the aqueducts and walls built by the Romans that invaded us, which stand firm and proud in the South, thousands of years after they they were erected. Castles from the Middle Ages or the Renaissance can still be spotted everywhere, each with its own glorious past, notorious characters and architectural originality. In France, men competed with nature to create the most beautiful wonders, and it sometimes did not even need to build to win the game. The beaches of Normandy, where Eisenhower’s troops landed to free the country in 1944; the maquis, where the French Resistance would hide during World War II; or the terribly sad Verdun in the East. All of them keep reminding us that our ancestors fought for the right reasons.

 

I love France, because I love the way it’s seen by foreigners. Travelling to the other side of the world, I have been told about this universal cliché of Marcel the mustached cyclist wearing his beret and carrying his baguette and croissant – which is both very French and ridiculously non-French at the same time, and a quite good depiction of my late Grandfather. I have been asked whether France was in Paris – ‘well, that’s not exactly true’ – and I have been mocked for my love relationship with cheese. Last, but certainly not least, I have almost fondly fainted in front of foreigners turning our Bonjour into a ‘Boonjouh’ – which is so inhumanely cute that I can hardly breathe thinking about it. I feel so honored whenever foreigners try and learn our beautiful headache of a language.

 

I love France, because of our gastronomy. French-gastronomically speaking, I am a living shame; I can’t help but declare my love for thai food and, even worse, I am a vegetarian and will make a face in front of a boeuf bourguignon or a blanquette de veau. However, I’m still the first one to very scientifically demonstrate that, since France is the world center of gastronomy, and Lyon is the French center of gastronomy, and the indoor supermarket Les Halles Paul Bocuse is the Lyonnese center of gastronomy, and having lived seventeen years right in front of the establishment, I am therefore the happy embodiment of French cooking. More seriously, and even aside of our typical and universally known dishes that boldly mix meat, vegetables and tasty sauce, our cheeses are a delight, our desserts are life-saviors, and a British journalist found exactly the right word saying that our croissants are nothing but ‘buttery pillows of perfection’.

 

I love France, because of the memories of our past and our art. There is a place in Paris that I love among all others, called the Panthéon. Great men and women are buried in this impressive building that always gives me strength, confidence and unlimited love for those who lived there before me. Recently, an incredible woman, whose name was Simone Veil, and her husband Antoine, joined the Panthéon as a show of gratitude for Simone for her involvement in the debut of the European Union, her contribution to the memories of the Shoah after she was deported to Auschwitz concentration camp, and her fight in favor of women’s rights and abortion. This country is also that of Victor Hugo, whose torrential writing style makes him our land’s most well-known Writer; of Edmond Rostand, whose character Cyrano de Begererac is a perfect embodiment of France; of Pasteur, who invented the vaccine…

 

I love France, because of Paris. Paris is a town like no other. It’s a whole. It’s not only because of the comforting light of the Eiffel tower that caresses one’s windows at night. Neither is it only because it’s impossible to get lost because one always has a famous monument to guide them back on path, such Montmartre, the Invalides, the Louvre or the Notre-Dame Cathedral. It can be because whenever one is randomly walking in the metro or in the streets, one can simply happen to find the Panthéon or remains of the Bastille by chance. Paris is the town of the unexpected and of the sweetness of life, that endured even when it was hit by one of the most devastating terrorist attacks of our time.

 

I love France, because I recently spent a weekend with young people who were sick with cancer and whose treatment was paid entirely by the social security, no matter their age or their social situation. My Grandfather – not the one that looked like Marcel the cyclist, the other one – was diagnosed with brain cancer when he was 65, and the State paid to ease his life and make it last in the best possible conditions, without even counting. These social benefits may cost a ‘crazy money’, Mr President; but last Saturday, as the sound of the Marseillaise played for a football match, all these people whose lives were saved thanks to it, got up and sang with their hands on the hearts, spontaneously declaring « J’aime mon pays » (I love my country), « Vive la France ». I sang with them.

 

I love France, because I was lucky enough to travel, and to see enough beauty and kindness in the countries I visited as to not compare them to mine. But every time I would go abroad, I would feel a peak of patriotism, far from any aggressive nationalism, and make myself my country’s ambassador, and hope I’d give enough of a positive snapshot of France to, one day, welcome home those people who welcomed me.

 

I love France, even though we did not welcome the 629 migrants saved by the Aquarius, even though we’re plagued by an enduring crisis and well-known for our strikes, even though we’re criticized for our ambiguity towards laicity and for the laws of our state of emergency; I love France, even though the memories of our past are far from being all glorious, and wars and colonization should not be forgotten.

 

I love France, because I have the right to point out what I think are its flaws without fearing anything. I love France, because those flaws do not make me want to leave but to try and change them a bit, at my level, because besides them, there’s everything else to love.


Vive la République, et vive la France!

 

Credits: An Adventurous World

China: Is Our School Life Heaven or Hell?

Featured

Like many other countries, China takes education seriously. In China, we normally have a six-year primary school, followed by a three-year middle school (Junior) and a three-year high school (Senior) before we finally enter college. Many differences between China and other countries may be found throughout these twelve years.

 

Why heaven? School life in China brings its teens a lot of good qualities!

Team spirit: We Chinese like to emphasize the conception of a team. While many foreign schools allow their students to choose their lessons themselves and therefore, be put in different classes with different classmates, it doesn’t apply to most of Chinese schools. We have certain schedules and are supposed to stay in a certain classroom, together with certain classmates. So the conception of a “team”, or in this situation, a “class”, seems to be much more important, for we spend a lot of time with our mates. Almost every teacher in Chinese schools considers ‘class-building’ as a hard but unavoidable task. So do we, the students. We study together, exercise together, eat in our school dining room chatting with others. The time spent together strengthens our relationships. Classmates are also our great friends. Even after many years pass, students may keep in touch with their previous classmates.

To improve students’ team spirit, many school activities are held in the name of the class, such as the annual celebration of New Year, which encourages students to make performances in their class and have fun together. There are also some activities for which classes compete against each other, such as our Art Festival, Technology Festival and sports meeting. Winners of such activities are often announced as “Class One” or “Class Two” instead of their names, even if the victory is due to only one student.

While fully respecting every individual, we have to acknowledge the great importance of team. All the wonderful achievements in China today rely on a team of people devoted to the group.

 

Discipline: Chinese schools especially emphasize students’ sense of discipline. It doesn’t mean we need to live as soldiers, but means that we have a much stricter code of conduct to obey, especially in those famous schools. This code of conduct aims to instruct students about what is good and what is bad, how to do things correctly when we are still young and easily misled by others. We are supposed to follow it exactly, in order to grow to be a better person.

Military training is a necessary part in almost every Chinese middle schools, high schools and colleges, often before new students start their new school life. It is held in a special base, not real army, but by real soldiers. During these days students are required to learn some basic skills like goose step. But the most important thing is that students can learn discipline and tenacity from a-week-or-more training. These qualities are thought to be significant in study and in daily life.

 

Depth of knowledge: Chinese students usually have nine main subjects (including Chinese, mathematics, English, physics, chemistry, biology, politics, history and geography) and several other subjects (such as music, art, physical education and computer). Before going to college and choosing a specific major, we have to study all these subjects. Because of that, we Chinese students can grasp comprehensive knowledge during middle school and high school.

Chinese courses are generally more difficult than in many other countries. For example, in Australia, when students learn conic curve, they merely know its definition. However, in China, the use of some relevant theorems is more important. Generally speaking, Chinese students learn much more difficult things than some others’.

 

Why hell? Breaking off teenagers’ wings

Utilitarianism: Chinese education is often called an ‘exam-oriented education’. This nickname is a typical expression of the utilitarianism in the education practice.

Here’s a typical situation as an example. Qian Liqun, one of the most famous professors in Peking university, once taught a session named “Selected readings of Lu Xun” in a famous high school. But then, he found that only twenty students came, for the reason that “We wouldn’t have disliked coming to your class, but it was not relevant for Gaokao (college  entrance examination), so we’d rather get infos on Peking university at first and then come to listen to your class”

To get a higher mark in the college entrance examination, students have to give up on their own interests and only focus on studying mandatory courses. In my school, most of the books are forbidden when we are in third grade, because the books are seen as a waste of time, no matter how fantastic they are are. Also,most of the students only have to worry about their school work, so they rarely get part-time job when they are young. Nor are they devoted to social or volunteer work, which makes them lack some basic and essential skills when they grow up and get to work.

Even more: Chinese children, especially children in primary school, also study many extra skills such as music, drawing, dancing. However most of them do not study for fun or to follow their hearts, but according to their parents expectation of upward mobility.

Most of the time, what the students study and know is not what they like; what has a tremendous importance is not what they need. The society never needs a worker who only knows how to work out a mathematic problem, but doesn’t know how to live and work with other people.

 

Simplification: In Chinese middle school, we hardly have any optional courses, and because of the existence of the settled class, all of us get the same knowledge. The single examination system also limits students’ horizons. In China, there is a vivid metaphor: our middle school education is just like an assembly line, producing the exactly same product, not taking care of the personality at all!

On the other hand, in a couple of top-range middle schools, there are abundant clubs and school activities prepared for students. But we also have to admit that the clubs are virtually imaginary in a certain sense, for students have few breaks and time to organize various activities, and the school activities are limited to a number of traditional ones (such as reciting, singing, sports meetings and so on). Most of these activities are still team work and lack demonstrations of any personal ability.

The homework we are given is also a reason why we can talk about simplification. Unlike some European and American countries, there is no essay to write in our middle school homework, but fixed subject. Even Chinese compositions, the one task that can best reflect one’s theoretical thinking, also have many fixed routines. Therefore, Chinese middle school students easily lack personal analytical and thinking skills.

So when everyone learns the same courses’ content, reads the same books, does the same exercises everyday, how can our education raise skilled people who love the field they’ll be working in and are good at it? 

 

Harm: The harm caused by education in China is divided into two aspects: physical and mental.

Long hours of study have seriously affected the health of Chinese students. In China, due to the serious pressure of competition, most of the students have to work more than 16 hours a day. For example, in our school, we have to go to school at 6:50, and go back home at 23:30. Many students still can’t finish their homework at that time, so after they get back home, they still have to work many more hours. “Sleep only five hours” is a typical thing people in grade three can be told, because it is an evidence of dedication and in some cases, it can lead to better grades. But apparently, chronic lack of sleep and physical exercise can do great harm to health. In a general way, high school graduates are always in poor health. (We have a joke that says: every student in grade 3 will gain more than ten pounds!)

Distorted competition regimes and excessive pressure can also be the cause of many psychological problems. “Every senior grade 3 student cries at least once a year “. More seriously, some students develop autism or anorexia. Some students only consider their grade and are never curious towards the outside world. They even think that chatting with others is a waste of time. It’s a vicious circle: they become more and more asocial, and without necessary communication, the pressure on their shoulders becomes heavier; so they see, even more, their grades as a reflection of their own value as an individual. And once they loose the competition, their mental state will sharply deteriorate.

 

Education is a thing that has its good and bad sides but can hardly be evaluated fairly. Many Chinese parents hate the education they have gone through, so they spare no effort to send their own kids abroad. But there also rumors that some schools in Britain and America want to introduce Chinese textbooks to their class. Actually, the evaluation of education can never be separated from the conditions of the country. What’s the special national conditions of China? It is huge and has a large population. There is an obvious gap in economy, society and population quality and therefore, education. The normal solution in some developed countries now seems unfair in China. Some provinces, that have a better environment and better opportunities, are much better in education without doubt, which is also unfair for those who live in mountainous areas. Also, there are a huge number of graduates every year. Only in Shaanxi, my province, the number of high school graduates goes up to 268,000. A universal examination may then appear to be a convenient way to deal with the problem. School life in China today is then merely decided by the way colleges choose their students.

Twelve years have passed. Now, when I look back to the life I have had these years, I can’t say whether they were good or bad. They are memories. How many twelve years will we have? Eight? Nine? No more than ten. These years were, at the utmost, 10% of my lifetime. And no matter whether they were heaven or hell, they are a precious period of time in our life, that make us the people we are today. School life in China is far away from perfect. We are still trying to improve it. But more important, it is neither heaven nor hell: it is memory, or rather, life.

 

Written by Yihan Liu, Keeper of China

Photo credits: http://shsworldstudies.blogspot.com

Australia: Five Natural Wonders of South Australia

Featured

Living in the suburbs of the city of Adelaide in South Australia, I’ve always felt like there weren’t that many eye-catching natural phenomenon around my home state. We don’t have a beautiful harbour (or a harbour bridge), nor do we have magnificent gorges. For all I knew, South Australia was basically a random mix of ordinary climates and landscapes.

Guess what? I was wrong. Very, very wrong.

After a trip to Mount Gambier for a music event, I remembered, and re-discovered, the beautiful sink-holes that litter the Mount Gambier area. This prompted me to search for other incredible landscapes and landmarks around South Australia and, lo and behold, I found many more incredible places that either I had forgotten about or hadn’t even heard of before.

So, I present to you the Five Natural Wonders of South Australia (that I have discovered thus far).

  1. The Umpherston Sinkhole

IMG_5533The Umpherston Sinkhole is actually the sink-hole that inspired this article in the first place. It was the first sink-hole I ever visited (about 4 years ago) and it left a lasting impression on me. It remains one of the most picturesque places I’ve ever visited, and I’ve made some treasured memories while I have visited. This special place is also one of the most aesthetically pleasing attraction I’ve visited, with the hole itself hosting a stunning, unbelievably green, garden of a variety of plant life, making it the perfect place for some stunning photo opportunities.

The Sunken Garden, as it’s also known, was naturally formed when the limestone roof of the underground chamber collapsed, forming the gaping cavity that can be seen today. The garden that now occupies the cavity was only appeared in 1886, when James Umpherston, the name-sake of the sink-hole, created the oasis that can be seen today. The lush ferns and hydrangeas, as well as a serene fountain, are just some of the reasons why this garden is so popular, though its popularity may also be a result of the (adorable) possums that also call this masterpiece of nature home.

If you haven’t visited this gorgeous place, I highly, highly, recommend it. However, if my words haven’t convinced you, then maybe my pictures will instead.

  2. The Remarkable Rocks

IMG_5535.jpgThe Remarkable Rocks are a group of granite rocks that, after 500 million years of erosion by wind, rain, and sea-spray, form a unique set of shapes and shadows, depending on the position of the sun. These lichen-stained rocks can be found on Kangaroo Island (which is also a beautiful place and is one of the most highly recommended places to see in South Australia). The orange lichen decorating the surface of the rocks also changes colour, from rust to gold, depending on the lighting.

Not only are the rocks themselves great photo opportunities, but they sit on a cliff overlooking the ocean, providing a beautiful ocean setting that the island itself is so well-known for.

The best time for viewing the rocks is said to be in the early morning (around sunrise) and in the evening (during sunset). This golden lighting provides one of the best for the viewing of the rocks, and, partnered with a serene sea, makes for a beautiful scene.

I myself have not the opportunity to visit these magnificent rocks, but people who have visited have highly recommended their visiting and, generally, thoroughly enjoyed themselves. If you’re ever visiting Kangaroo Island, give this rocks a visit, you won’t regret it.

3. The Blue Lake

IMG_5534.jpgThe Blue Lake is another masterpiece of Mother Nature that can be found in Mount Gambier. The Blue Lake, which occupies an extinct volcano crater, is one of the most incredible sights of Mount Gambier, with the site being renowned for the cobalt blue waters which can be seen between December and March (summer and early autumn months). While the cobalt blue waters, unfortunately, don’t last throughout the entire year, the lake still retains a remarkably pewter blue (which can be seen in the first image of mine) from April to November.

The reason for the magnificent colour change of the lake remains unknown, though there are many legends and stories that attempt to provide an explanation, with one legend (my personal favourite) speaking of bunyips (an Australian mythical beast) that live on the bottom of the lake coming to the surface for summer. This migration of the bunyips, is said to cause the colour of the lake. Some people say that the lake reflects the blue of the sky, and others (jokingly) say that vibrant blue is merely food dye. It’s more likely that this colour change is due to chemical reactions occurring between the water and rocks.

While I can’t confirm the existence of bunyips in general, I can say that the Blue Lake is a must visit if you’re ever spending time in South Australia.

4. Wilpena Pound

IMG_5536.jpgWilpena Pound (wilpena an Aboriginal word meaning bent fingers, describing the rock formation), a  large rock basin located in the heart of picturesque Flinders Rangers, home to the highest peak of the Rangers, St. Mary Peak. I successfully climbed the 1170 meter mountain on my year nine camp four years ago (when I was much fitter) and attempted to climb (but only got halfway due to failing light) once again with French Keeper, Camille, and a few other friends.

Wilpena Pound is, while quite harsh and very much belonging to the bush, one of the most famous areas in South Australia. It is a popular camping spot due to the attraction of St. Mary Peak, the Hill family homestead, ancient Indigenous artwork found at Arkaroo Rock, and the beautiful, sweeping lines of the mountain ranges.

This incredible feat of nature is definitely more than worth a look, and there are many accommodation options if you are keen for a visit. If you are heading over to stay, I would recommend staying for at least a few days (although don’t be surprised if you end up wishing you didn’t have to leave).

5. Lake Bumbunga

Lake Bumbunga-2.jpgHave you ever seen those extremely aesthetic pictures of people on Instagram sitting by a pink lake? You probably just thought, ‘Oh they’ve edited the lake to look pink, that’s cool’. Well would you believe me if I told you it wasn’t edited? One of the most popular pink lakes found in South Australia is the fairy floss (or candyfloss) pink lake of Lake Bumbunga.

The word ‘bumbunga’ is, reportedly, the word for ‘rain water lake’, for the Parnpangka people (indigenous community) of the area. The use of this word for the naming of the lake is a nod to the Indigenous people who lived on the land, as well as their rich history and culture.

The lake is located in Lochiel and is made up of three salt pans that have been harvested for over 30 years for a variety of uses. The colour of the water, despite being best known for being pink, has also been known to change to white as well as blue, this change being attributed to the salinity of the water which is known to fluctuate throughout the year.

The lake is also a short drive away from the Clare Valley, a famous wine region in South Australia.  So, if you’re a fan of wine and uniquely striking views, Lake Bumbunga is the place for you!

After writing this article, I’m honestly shocked that I ever thought that South Australia was the least picturesque state in Australia (seriously, look at this picture from the sink-hole!). While I’ve only provided five here in this article, I’m more than certain that there are more natural gems that are just as beautiful and awe-inspiring as the ones you’ve seen here.

If you’re ever able to visit any one of these places that I’ve listed, don’t hesitate. You won’t be disappointed.

 

// EDIT BY CAMILLE, Keeper of France // Two years ago, I spent two months in Adelaide, South Australia, Australia, to study in Siobhan’s high school. My host sister Lucy and her wonderful family showed me around, and I was lucky enough to discover almost all the places Siobhan wrote about. This will probably remain one of the most astonishing road trips of my life… and a good proof that Australia is not only about koalas, kangaroos, Ayers Rock and dreadful animals 😛

 

Links:

https://theculturetrip.com/pacific/australia/articles/8-amazing-natural-wonders-to-see-in-south-australia/

http://www.abc.net.au/local/stories/2013/11/01/3881917.htm

http://www.traveller.com.au/wilpena-pound-south-australia-travel-guide-and-things-to-do-12mah1

http://austhrutime.com/wilpena_pound.htm

https://www.tripadvisor.com.au/ShowUserReviews-g499708-d1813068-r70573658-Arkaroo_Rock-Flinders_Ranges_National_Park_Flinders_Ranges_South_Australia.html

https://southaustralia.com/travel-blog/south-australias-pink-lake-bucket-list

https://www.kidsinadelaide.com.au/lake-bumbunga-pink-lake/

Credits: Siobhan Reardon (Keeper of Australia), Camille Ibos (Keeper of France), southaustralia.com

 

Home Trotter: la Nueva Canción Chilena

Featured

     The 60s were years of global change in politics, philosophy, and notably music. The student protests of May ’68 in France, the Woodstock Festival, and the anti-Vietnam protests are but a few examples of the spirit of the age. This spirit of change extended even as far Chile. Students became engaged in politics, motivated by a nascent hope in the possibility of social reforms. It was into this atmosphere that the musical movement of La Nueva Canción Chilena (the New Chilean Song) was born. La Nueva Canción movement, overtly left-wing, (it contributed to the election of socialist candidate Salvador Allende as President in 1970) was sparked by a yearning for music that was both Chilean, and Latin American. At the same time as Bob Dylan was composing The Times they are a Changing, and John Lennon Imagine, Chile was searching for a new type of sound.

36087419_1793661220673170_5844320213377482752_n

The birth of this movement can be credited in large part to the work of Violeta Parra, who by reviving previously scattered Chilean folk songs, and other national musical formulas such as the Parabienes, the Canto a lo divino (song to the divine) , and the canto a lo humano (song to the human ) was essential. This heritage, previously unknown or forgotten, was made accessible and reinvented by Violeta Parra, as well her son Ángel and daughter Isabel. Parra (Violeta), herself a prolific composer, greatly contributed to the musical development of the movement. A major breakthrough in the birth of the Nueva Canción was the founding of the Parra family peña (folkloric gathering place), which united several musicians who would go on to be leading figures attaining international recognition. Among these were, naturally, Isabel and Angel Parra, as well as Patricio Manns, Victor Jara, and Rolando Alarcon. 

36177124_1793662890673003_1717094007584063488_n.jpgThe principal group, that would serve as the model for those that came after, was formed by the Carrasco brothers in conjunction with Julio Numhauser; it would take the name Quilapayún. In the beginning they received musical guidance from none other than Ángel Parra, but the group would establish themselves more firmly on the national scene when they incorporated Victor Jara as musical director. Jara introduced a discipline to the group which made its composition sessions more fruitful and productive. Quilapayún would go on to win, in 1969, the first festival dedicated to La Nueva Canción Chilena. Though the group went through many metamorphoses throughout its existence, it maintained a firm commitment to Latin-American folklore.

35955111_1793663234006302_3149591683860004864_n.jpgAnother fundamental group was founded by a group of university students, who would come to be known as Inti Illimani. Noteworthy was their incorporation of instruments such as the charango, the quena, and the guitarrón, with the objective of attaining a ‘new’ sound (Paradoxically only new in the sense that it had been forgotten). Much like Quilapayún, Inti-Illimani’s music mixed the national with the Latin-American by incorporating musical expressions present in different Andean countries such as Bolivia, Peru, and Ecuador. In the present context of divisions and/or distance between Latin-American nations it may seem strange, but in the 60s unity and cultural solidarity was significantly more common-place. In doing so, Inti-Illimani made accessible to the world, tunes that were a representation not only of the Chilean folklore but also of that of all Latin-America. This was a very noble form of cultural appreciation that existed throughout the music scene in Chile of the 60s and early 70s.

Because of its political affiliations to the Socialist Unidad Popular government, La Nueva Canción was brought to an abrupt halt in 1973, when the Socialist Allende government was overthrown by the military junta. The new regime prohibited Andean music for some time by banning the use of certain instruments used by artists of La Nueva Canción. Various music groups, having supported Allende with their music, became enemies of the state overnight and were persecuted. Victor Jara was brutally assassinated, whilst Angel Parra was sent to a concentration camp. Inti-Illimani had been touring in Italy at the time of the coup, and was left with little choice other than exile for the following 17 years. Quilapayún was also caught off-guard by the coup, while touring abroad in France, and they too began their life in exile.

35988945_1793664300672862_7996273427683999744_n.jpgDespite the arrival of the coup, and the exile of several of the main groups, some musical affiliations carried on with their music. One of these was Illapu, a group founded in 1971 (2 years before the coup) by university students. Being of a later generation, Illapu inherited the musical style of greats such as the Parras, Quilapayún, and Inti-illimani. Their office in downtown Santiago, too, was destroyed with their instruments included as well during the coup. The members of this group were well aware that the music they were producing put their lives at risks, yet they persevered nonetheless. Given their newfound international popularity, Illapu embarked on a European tour that lasted some time. Upon their return to Chile in 1981, the DINA (Chilean secret police) attempted to arrest these musicians at the airport. Given the presence of cameras from international networks that had been following the trail of the young musicians, this became a scandal, and they were instead exiled abroad (on the same plane they arrived), first in France, and later in Mexico.

For many of those in exile, the idea of returning to Chile seemed out of the question. This changed in 1988 when the Dictatorship agreed to hold a plebiscite over whether to continue with the current state of affairs, or transition towards democracy. The results were 56% against the regime, and 44% in favor of it. Democracy was re-established, and in 1990, Patricio Aylwin, a Christian Democrat, became the first president of the post-dictatorship years. This period saw the return of several of the groups that had been living abroad, many of whom continue performing and composing to this day. La Nueva Canción Chilena was a musical movement that marked the nation, both politically and culturally. Folk music remains one of the main genres of the Chilean tradition as a third generation of musicians carries on the work and tradition of those that came before.

Below I have listed some of the exponents of this movement that have been mentioned in the article. Happy listening!

Playlist:

  • Violeta Parra: Gracias a la Vida / Volver a los 17 / Parabienes al revés
  • Victor Jara (photo): Plegaria a un labrador / Luchín
  • Quilapayun: Vamos mujer / Qué culpa tiene el tomate
  • Inti Illimani: Samba Lando / El Mercado de Testaccio / Vuelvo
  • Rolando Alarcon: Si somos Americanos
  • Patricio Manns: Cantiga a la memoria rota
  • Isabel Parra: Centro de la Injusticia
  • Illapu: El Negro José / Lejos del Amor / Vuelvo para Vivir
  • Santiago del Nuevo Extremo: A mi ciudad

35884111_1793662477339711_2633665540656201728_n.jpg

Honduras: Welcome to Jutiapa!

Featured

Before we had to worry about walking alone in the streets or the high prices of gasoline, it was the rivers, the mountains, the dirts roads, the mango trees and all of nature’s allies which dictated the law. Along the northern region of the Atlantic coast, the rivers kissed the fields with fertilizing love; and the jungles, with an abundant biodiversity. The green was king along these areas and the economy was ruled by the small farmers who would stay reverent to their majesty. Nature’s story described the union of two rivers that formed the Jutiapa river; the guardian, life giver and taker of this humble but nevertheless vivid town in the eastern side of Atlantida.

Under the discipline of aunts, his mother, and a couple scrapes (courtesy of the dirt roads and tree branches), Marden Daniel Espinoza Sandoval grew up here learning by the law of the land. My father always told me his adventures whenever the power would go out at night in our house. Some things still don’t change in Honduras but for the most part, the 1960s and 70s’ world my father talks about, is another life. Jutiapa during the night was powered by a small diesel motor and power generator that would go off at 9:00 p.m. After that, darkness would hug the night and fireflies would take over the night show along with the stars.

There was only one telephone in the entire town and it was located in the police station. It was a life without tremendous amounts of technology but much more social connections and ties. People in town would entertain themselves by playing with marbles, bikes, spinning wooden tops, many other traditional games, and of course the so beloved soccer that blessed many boys into the big cities to play with the bigger leagues. Life in the small town was peaceful, there was no fear other than the myths and legends that came out of the night. My father was the son of a farmer, and he and his 4 other brothers would go and sell milk everyday. To dream in this town meant to imagine a life with big buildings and lights at night; and yet, today, for me to dream in my city would be to imagine darkness in the jungle, under the tutelage of the moon and stars.

iglesia jutiapa.jpgMy father and uncles have kept my grandfather’s heritage, a farm called “Hot Water” because it’s home to a body of hot water that takes refuge in the bowels of earth but that expresses itself to the world as a vaporous rivulet. Jutiapa is a town so simple-hearted, straightforward, and yet full of the most comic adventures one would only think of as magic realism. I believe my father regrets nothing of such a humble and somewhat poor childhood, because he enjoyed every mili-liter of that river and every millimeter of those fields. He danced, he told jokes, he laughed and cried and lived in a town that taught him to ride horses without saddles and to laugh the pains away.

Jutiapa stays dear to him and it stays dear to me, too. I myself have scars in my knees of the dirt roads and the bike rides. The farm witnessed my first horse rides, our soccer matches in the fields with my cousins, and the baths in the old cow’s drinking wells. Here I’ve seen the most star populated skies, spent the most peaceful nights, and breathed the purest air. Near the hot water rivulet, the mountain’s proximity has gifted us with one of the most talented monkey choruses ever; howlers monkeys love to see the weird humans sing back at them when the night starts to take over.

And as we all grow up, I think we value more the small things we usually take for granted. No everyone gets to have a duet with monkeys. Not everyone gets to ride horses in the fields. Not everyone gets to jump off huge rock into cold rivers in summer afternoons. It’s this proximity to nature that I crave, sometimes… ae seem to forget the beauty and richness that simplicity tends to carry with her.

campito.jpg

Australia: It’s Reconciliation Week!

Featured

When I’m writing this, it is currently the 27th of May, a day which marks the beginning of Reconciliation Week (held from May 27 to June 3). In Australia, this week is dedicated to the growing of respectful relationships between our Indigenous peoples, being the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people; and Australians of other cultural heritage.

These two dates are very special and hold great meaning to Australians, marking the dates of significant events of Indigenous history in colonized Australia. The 1967 Referendum of May 27 gave the Commonwealth the power to make laws for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples and recognize them in the national census. On the 3rd of June, the Mabo Decision was legalized, which legally recognized that Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples have a special relationship to the land. It paved the way for Native Title, and overturned the title of Terra Nullius (“nobody’s land”) given to Australia upon the arrival of the First Fleet in 1788.

The Council for Aboriginal Reconciliation held the first Reconciliation Week in 1996, and this year marks its 22nd edition. Week follows National Sorry Day, held on the 26th of May and that remembers and commemorates the mistreatment of the country’s Indigenous Peoples. All Australians are encouraged to take part in this week of forging new and lasting relationships, and take the time to get to know the rich and diverse culture and people who have treasured this land we call home for thousands of years.

Before I dive into Reconciliation Week and all its components, I think I should make clear for all of you reading this, and who are not familiar with our Indigenous Australians, a brief overview of the peoples to whom I’ll be referring to. Aboriginal Australians are those people indigenous to mainland Australia and the island of Tasmania, while Torres Strait Islander people are those belonging to the Torres Strait Islands of Queensland; this group of people are distinct from those of the Aboriginal tribes and so are referred to under a different name. Of course, these are very broad names for the many tribes that inhabited Australia, with over 500 different clan groups with different cultures, beliefs, and languages. Some of these have died out as a result of white settlers and so, it is for this reason (among others) that Reconciliation Week is such an important part of modern Australia and us Australians.

language-map-image-data.png

Historically, the relationship between Indigenous Australians and Australian settlers is not one that is celebrated, with many wrongs being committed against those we call the First Australians. This week, however, is the week in which we take the steps to reconciliation, where, as a nation, we come together to respect and apologise to those to which Australia owes so much.

Reconciliation Australia, an independent, national not-for-profit organisation which initiates the week, says:

“We believe in fairness for everyone, that our diversity makes us richer, and that together, we are stronger…”

Reconciliation Australia also proposes a country in which:

  1. Australians value Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander and non-Indigenous cultures, rights and experiences.
  2. Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples have access to basic rights such as health and education.
  3. Political, business and community structures uphold equal opportunity for all Australians.
  4. Australian society recognises Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander cultures and heritage as a part of the nation’s identity.

Coming from the perspective of a non-Indigenous Australian, I cannot quite comprehend the full meaning this week may have on the lives of Indigenous Australians – I believe no one but these Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people can. However, as a person who has a great love for history and building new relationships, Reconciliation Week has always been a very important part of the way I view my country as well as my education and myself.

Growing up, children are taught in great depth about the history of Australia, both prior to white settlement and after, both the good and the bad. This education, the education I continue to expand upon, is one I am extremely grateful for as an individual who thoroughly enjoys history, and actively wants to play a part in forging new relationships across many diverse cultures; and in doing so, hopefully, help contribute to mending the rift between the First Australians and non-Indigenous Australians such as myself.

Reconciliation Week is celebrated in a wide array of ways, marches being quite popular for the people of many cities throughout Australia. My own year level organized a march for school at the beginning of the week to show our support of Indigenous peoples and their cultures. Social gatherings are a popular way of showing support, with breakfast and lunch gatherings a favorite of many. Sporting events hold games dedicated to respecting and supporting the various Indigenous cultures, many creating specific uniforms that pay homage to the art and culture of the First Australians. Services of remembrance and exhibitions are also relatively popular. Any way of demonstrating appreciation for our Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples is valued and highly supported during this week (of course this is the same all year round, but a bit more so during this period of time).

Not only is Reconciliation Week our way of mending the bond between Indigenous Australians and non-Indigenous Australians, but it is also a way in which we hope to greatly reduce the racism present in our society; not only racism targeted against Aboriginals and Torres Strait Islanders but against all those who experience racism in its various forms. While it will most likely be impossible to completely eradicate racism (unfortunately), one can only hope that a week like this (with all its events) will support and advertise the acceptance and sharing of all cultures.

While we can never fix the wrongs that happened in the past, we can fix the wrongs that are happening today, and, I believe, Reconciliation Week, a week that unifies all Australians, is just one way that Australia is doing that. Imagine a world without racism and segregation. A world without judgement of a person’s cultural beliefs – what a wonderful world.

Additional Links:

https://www.sbs.com.au/nitv/explainer/what-national-reconciliation-week

https://www.reconciliation.org.au/national-reconciliation-week/

https://www.reconciliation.org.au/wp-content/uploads/2017/11/Lets-talk…Reconciliation.pdf

https://www.reconciliation.org.au/

Credits: abc.net, NACCHO

 

France: An Answer to Mr Trump – that He’ll Probably Never Read

Featured

A few days ago, on May the 4th (Star Wars day!), President Donald Trump delivered a speech in front of the National Rifle Association. He reaffirmed his support to their lobby – something we are quite used to, coming from him. What was different this time, however, was the way he also advised other countries, including mine, to renounce to their tough legislations against civil gun ownership.

Being Donald Trump, he decided to carry his message the right way – ‘right’, as in ‘efficient’, as in ‘shocking’, as in ‘most likely to upset a whole country, with a terrifying lack of respect and sympathy’. To tell France that it should allow civil gun ownership, Mr. Trump decided to talk about the terrorist attacks of November 13th 2015, that killed 130 people, and harmed more than 400, in Paris.

These attacks left the French population open-wounded. I’ll never forget this day. When I got up on November 14th, after oversleeping a bit, happy and safe in my bed, my parents told me that ‘There has been an attack’. I was expecting the worst, I read even worse than that. And throughout the whole day, I could do nothing else than exchange messages with friends – ‘Did you see what happened?’ ‘Yeah’ ‘Did you know anyone?’ – and that was all because we had no words. I was re-actualizing my actualities every two minutes, blenching every time there would be news. The count of the deaths seemed to never stop – it rose to 130 killed by half-a-dozen terrorists. Those were the most deadly attacks that ever targeted France – and what I feel is even worse, it that they attacked my country in the locations that make French people the proudest to be French, concert rooms, restaurants, little Parisian Cafés that are the strongest evidence of France’s sweetness of life, in which they introduced death.

On the Monday that followed that terrible weekend, I went back to my high school. Teachers were remaining silent. When it came to the official minute of silence – after we did many others the morning before, because no one felt like talking – people started crying. No one in my class knew any direct victim of this, nor did they know anyone who would have known a victim, but victims we all were, breathless at the thought of such an act of ideological cruelty. On that day, my Father came to me to tell me that we were at war and that he wanted to join the Army reserve. I do not know what shook we the most – to actually be ‘at war’ for the first time of my life, me, born as one of the first generations that never knew any war, either a World one, the Algerian one, the Cold one! Or that even though we were, bakeries were still opening at dawn with their buttery croissants, we could still see couples French-kissing in the streets, students were still having French fries between two classes and life, was more alive than it ever was before, even though we were, all, radically different inside.

And on May the 4th 2018, two years and 172 days after that, I heard the President of the US mimicking the terrorists that entered the Bataclan on this deadly night – Boom! Come over here! Boom!. When I heard this, I felt tears starting to sting my eyes, much more from anger than from sadness. How? How could he dare? And how could he continue, under the thunder of applause, to say that ‘if one employee had a gun, if one person in this room had been there with a gun, the terrorists would have fled or been shot’?

 

.

 

I know. I stopped breathing, too.

 

 

Dear Mr. Trump,

 

Let’s first assume that we could go back in time. Let’s assume that before November 13th, 2015, guns’ civil ownership has been authorized in France. Let’s assume that during this concert at the Bataclan, a person of good will actually had a gun – or maybe more than one. Let’s assume that the attack actually happened the way you described it, as if you were there. I have one question.

Would this person, would this civil gun owner, unsheathe his or her gun, and shoot? And if ever he or she did, would this be of any help? Would this person shoot, with the omnipresent fear of hurting an innocent in the chaos? Would this person shoot, most probably terrorized by this situation we are not trained to react to, would his arm stop shivering, and would the terrorists, dehumanized enough to commit such a crime that goes beyond words, ‘either flee or be shot’?

A few days after the attacks, I attended my weekly class of kravmaga. This martial art, developed by the Israeli army, is believed to be one of the most efficient in the world. On that evening, we spent two hours learning what to do with my instructor that used to teach soldiers and secret services. We tumbled on the floor, we rolled away, we learned how to make a gun pointed on our head deviate enough for us to fight back. And eventually, our teacher shot in the air with a fake gun loaded blank. Luckily enough, that’s the only gun I ever heard in my life – but as everyone in the room, I stood petrified for a second, because this noise is loud and mind-blowing enough for people to be muffled in a safe kravmaga gym – so what about a concert room, invaded by terrorists?

So would this person react? Would she shoot and would she reach her target? Or would she remain petrified as well, which is the reaction that most of us would probably have, that I would probably have, that you would most probably have?

But let’s assume, again, that this happened for once. That this hero saved the situation.

For one person that did so, and maybe prevented deaths by this action, how many other people would have died due to civil gun ownership? In France, 35 people died as a result of guns in 2011 and the very same year, they were 9,145 in the US. According to the Brady Campaign, there are 100,000 victims of gun violence every year in your country and since the beginning of 2018, there has been more than 1 shooting in a school every week.

Talking about this Brady Campaign, one sentence on their website particularly caught my attention: ‘our movie theaters, places of worship, schools, streets, and homes are not safe’. That is how French people felt, after terrorists attacked our nation and our people in a concert room, in a supermarket, in a school, in a newspaper’s building. What generalizing civil guns’ ownership would lead to, would be nothing else than fear, this fear that we already felt towards ISIS and that we would, here, feel towards our own peers.

Fear is part of our daily lives already. I fear, as a girl, when I need to walk back home alone by night – and this, despite years of experience in diverse martial arts that already make me safer than many other girls my age. But I don’t think that guns would provide better protection for me, just because, assuming that I knew how to use it and would indeed use it, I don’t think shooting people up is the solution. And, assuming I had access to a gun, I would be more than willing to renounce it, so all these other people in France, who would use it to kill and to harm, would not be able to access one either.

A few months ago,  on March the 23rd 2018, a one person saved a life during a terrorist attack. Arnaud Beltrame was a gendarme who took the place of a hostage and died the day after from his injuries. And, you know what? He had a gun. All his colleagues did. They did not shoot at first, both because of the hostages – of the innocent civilians in the Bataclan this night – and because of the rules of self-defense, I reckon. It also made me think about this young Afghan teenager, Aitzaz Hassan, who on January 6th, 2014, made himself explode with a terrorist to prevent him from destroying a school and killing  those inside. A bullet from a gun is not necessary to save a life, and allowing civil gun ownership in France would contribute to wreck our country’s peace and sweetness almost as surely as the actions of terrorists could have.

Could have, because they did not. They did not, because our people continued to fight, but differently. We decided to fight by educating, by denouncing those who would make amalgams, we decided to fight by living and making it a political mobilization against those who wanted to tear us apart. And before anything else, we fought by respecting and remembering the memories of our victims – instead of mimicking their last moments at the tribune of a congress on the guns that costed them their lives.

410aa67b9298910384da7ecbd56c.jpeg

// Credits // bfmtv

Costa Rica: A small town’s contribution to culture

Featured

5:30 pm. There is a slight breeze brushing on my hair, and my fingers itch with the touch of the blades of grass. I open my eyes and see mountains descending for kilometers and kilometers until they reach a golden coast, covered in the rays of the sleepy sun. I’m sitting in one of my favorite places in the world: Las Piedras (The Stones). This corner of my world, where hundred-year old volcanic rocks are used simultaneously as a teenager’s bench and a beetle’s shelter, was all I knew; my secluded home that seemed, like a bug’s refuge, a bit too small.

When I turned 17, I had just finished high school and I took the decision of moving my life to France for a few years. Some people have called my decision brave, others impulsive, I call it inevitable. Few small-town people that I’ve met have told me that they’d enjoy spending the rest of their lives in their hometown and I’m no exception. Almost two years after my departure, I came back to Monteverde for a second time and, naturally, I saw the town with different eyes. The food tasted better, the sunsets were slower, people’s smiles were sweeter. I was reminded of how particular this tiny place is and how distinct its culture is from much of the country. I admit many people will say that about their respective homes, but bear with me, that is precisely my point.

To get to Monteverde from San José, Costa Rica’s capital, you have to take a 4-hour bus, of which one hour is up a dirt road next to immense cliffs. Regardless of the intimidating journey, the town’s humble population of 6,750 is visited by about 250 thousand tourists yearly, meaning a monthly average of over 20,800. It’s not hard to imagine why this is after spending just two minutes googling pictures of the place, but Monteverde’s cosmopolitan side does not end here. To understand why, we have to take trip to the United States in the 1950’s.

 The Korean war had just sparked at the time, and the US government was drafting soldiers from all around the country. A group of Quakers and pacifists from Fairhope, Alabama who refused to take part in the conflict, decided to move to a more peaceful place. Costa Rica, which had abolished its army in 1949, seemed like an ideal new home. The group of Americans bought land in what is now Monteverde, where only a few Costa Rican families were living at the time. In order to sustain themselves, they created the nationally famous Cheese. The Quakers soon founded the Monteverde Friend’s School which is now one of two bilingual schools in town. As time passed Quaker and Costa Rican culture began to mix. As an established melting pot for Americans and Ticos (Costa Ricans’ informal demonym) more families joined the town. Subsequently, tourism boomed during the 1980’s in Costa Rica, Monteverde’s biodiversity and international nature only stimulating the growth and the global presence of the town.

Driving around, you can see a public soccer field, often crowded with loud, energetic youth; street-open, repair workshops where muscular, greasy, middle aged man are laughing as they fix motorcycles; the Catholic Church in the middle of town, in which elderly ladies close their eyes and hold a rosary. Scenes such as these are the representation of Costa Rican culture at its core, maybe even a good peak into Latin America itself. Look a little closer, however, and you will see less conventional scenes. Wake up early in the morning and it would not be uncommon to see a group of teenagers with binoculars heading into the woods to birdwatch; on a Saturday night you might hear folk music from the Friend’s School, where both young adults and seniors are square-dancing.

CoRi 3.png

A culture can be analyzed and differentiated through many factors. One recognizes cities as Paris or Rome for their art and architecture or makes the difference between Argentina and Chile based on language and accent, or even distinguishes between Chinese families and American families based on their traditions like when they celebrate the New Year. Monteverde, by this standard has, undoubtedly, its own culture. Concerning art, on top of square dancing, it has become a summer tradition for many to go watch the yearly musical organized by Far Corners Musical Theater. This is a non-profit that has produced plays for over 10 years in the community with kids from the ages of 12-18. Furthermore, language is an amusing topic in the town. Younger generations have excellent levels of English, and many young adults, including myself, have the habit of speaking Spanglish, swiftly changing languages half-sentence or using certain words that might be more precise in a second language. Beyond that, the formal way of saying “you” (Usted) is used much more than it is in the capital, which changes the whole conjugation of your sentences and, in turn, the way you sound.

Some instances of Costa Rican culture are also harder to find in Monteverde. For starters, there is a very specific structure of how towns were built hundreds of years ago in the country. The Church was most likely facing the East, with a park in front of it and the school next it. This arrangement is not found in the town which was built fairly recently in very irregular geography. The church is far from any school and, although nature is abundant, there is no real park in town. The massive amount of agriculture that can be found in many other parts of the country is also missing; rather, the town harnessed its potential for agriculture into tourism, which is the absolute core of the economy in the zone. Tours of coffee and sugarcane plantations, as well as many reforestation activities are easy to find around.

When visiting a country, it is easy to simply use stereotypes to understand the place. It makes us feel safer to know something about a place and we often get carried away by it. Many go to France expecting to see mimes and tons of smokers. What’s more, many of these images that we hear about come from cities, as they are often the most visited place in a country. Stereotypes and assumptions are necessary for people to feel safer while traveling; often it can be the only information one has of a place. But regardless of their importance, their dangers have to be considered as well.

This town is not exclusively a part of Costa Rican culture, as it is not the case for hundreds of thousands of towns world-wide that you and I have yet to discover. The outcome of what the town and its inhabitants are right now, as it is the case for a country, comes from specific occurrences to the place. Granted, it is heavily affected by both our Costa Rican and Latin heritage, but just like the country’s culture is not a hand-down from either Central or Iberian America, what Monteverde has become is an independent phenomenon that overlaps with what the larger culture around it is.

CoRi .png

After spending some time in Europe, I realized I was scared to say that I knew what Costa Rican culture accurately was, knowing that my town was not an absolute representation of my country. How could it ever be, though? I now understand that this is not an unreasonable feeling. Like cities, towns can deeply contribute to a country’s culture while remaining distinctive. Fortunately, this notion only widens the possibilities of learning, exploring and experiencing the vastness of the globe. And I urge you to, as you may have been told all your life, rid your mind of any prejudice and observe, truly observe, what each and every corner of the world has to offer.

 

To see many more beautiful photos of Costa Rica, you may want to go check out local photographer Félix Salazar’s website (https://www.felucointhewoods.com) and Instagram: felucointhewoods!

Honduras: Coast, Heat, and Carnival!

Featured

It’s that time in the year for ‘Ceibeños’ (inhabitants of La Ceiba, one of the largest town in Honduras) to party all day and night to the rhythms of the coast!

For the coastal Hondurans, party is no longer an option; it’s already part of their weekly routine. Don’t get me wrong! Coastal Hondurans are hard working, but when it comes to dancing, singing, and enjoying the holidays, they know how to deliver with radiant energy.

carroz-1.jpg

May is the month of the carnival in La Ceiba, which this year will be celebrated on May 19. The entire week is dedicated to “La Feria Isidra” (The Isidorian Fair); and along various neighborhoods of the city, there are numerous celebrations in honor of Saint Isidore the Laborer. Saint Isidore is the city’s patron saint, whose holiday is celebrated May 15. For the Catholic community of the city, this day starts with a joyful dawn. Then, at noon, they have a procession for Saint Isidore; and finally, the evening is concluded with the celebration of a mass. Nevertheless, the carnival, which always takes place on a Saturday, welcomes all those willing to celebrate friendship and community love, regardless of their religious ideologies.

 

Saint Isidore is a catholic saint, also known as Saint Isidore the laborer. He was a Spanish farmer from Madrid, from which, along with La Ceiba and some other villages, he is the city’s patron saint. Saint Isidore was well known for his reverence to the poor and to animals as well. Quite numerous amount of miracles are attributed to him. He was very serviceable, and would often brings guests back home to offer them some lunch. In one occasion, he brought more guests than usual and his wife, Saint Maria de la Cabeza, was not expecting this. When she had served all the plates with the stew she had prepared in the cauldron, she proceeded to telling Saint Isidore that there was no more food. However, he insisted and told her to check again in the cauldron for more stew, and she spooned enough for every single guest.

The laborer was so devout that every morning, before going to work, he would attend to mass, and his workmates would complain about his lack of punctuality. So his master, in an attempt to clarify his doubtts, went to check on him. Upon his surprise, he found Saint Isidore praying, while an angel was plowing for him. On another instance, he saw that while he was plowing, two other angels were plowing with him; so Saint Isidore’s work consequently equaled that of three of his workmates.

 

He is now considered to be the patron saint of farmers, and those who work the fields. Often, he was asked to help them out with some kind of climate change that would benefit the crops they were growing. From this, emerged a song that asked him to change the sunny days into rainy ones, or, in many cases, to do the opposite as well. In Spanish, its phrase is

“San Isidro Labrador quita el agua y pon el Sol.

San Isidro Labrador quita el sol y pon el agua”

which literally translates to ‘Saint Isidore take the sun away and bring the water. Saint Isidore take the water away and put the sun.’ When we were small, we were taught this song, and whenever it rained, we would sing with the hope the sun would come out soon, for us to go play outside. If a saint can turn a gloomy day to one full of sunshine, I would also dedicate a week to celebrate that!

 

Although the birth of the celebration is attributed to the appreciation of the saint, today the carnival is no longer so linked with it. The fairs and celebrations are still named after him, but the carnival itself has been named the “Friendship Carnival”, and many people from all over the country, and even from neighboring countries such as El Salvador or Guatemala, come to this celebration. It is a long day usually characterized by intense heat. For many, the way they spend this day is part of their family traditions. Some get seats in the roofed bleachers the municipality sets up, and others try to arrive very early with their pickup trucks, parking them at the side of the road to settle their place early in the day.

 

The route of the carnival is set along the entire Saint Isidore Avenue, which extends itself across 3.4 km. The whole setting up takes place during the entire morning. At Noon, the booths and stands are already ready and those who sell food, given it’s lunchtime, use this opportunity to attract their clients. The 12 o’clock sun is tremendously strong. This is probably the reason why the carnival doesn’t start at 12 – and because participants take lunchtime very seriously as well.

desfile.caballos.JPG

The excitement and the energy start flowing from the morning, but the actual float parade starts at 2 p.m., just right after people have eaten and are ready to enjoy the show. You have numerous amounts of animators on the floats. Dancers, singers and models are decorated with extravagant dresses. Some local designers such as Eduardo Zablah, let their imaginations run through the colors and magic of the coastal city, to come up with extravagant costumes that are fit for such grandiose occasion. The parade lasts until the afternoon and early evening. Besides the floats, you also get to see horses parading, motorcyclists, and dancers such as garifuna groups, and some marching bands from renowned schools of the city. After the parading, the hours of fun are not over of course! There are numerous concerts of national and international bands and artists. The locals and guests enjoy the night to its fullest and those who can, stay to greet the sunrise.

 

The carnival is indeed one of the events ‘Ceibeños’ are really eager about. Many have already posted about their excitement and claimed they are ready to catch as many necklaces as possible. The people in the floats, horses, dancers in the street, and even some citizens who happen to live in this avenue, have well enrooted the tradition of giving away necklaces to the passersby, and those in the bleachers too. It’s incredible what people do for a necklace. But hey, that’s the tradition, if you don’t have at least one necklace by the end of the parade, it’s almost as if you weren’t there!

 

The happiness is in high amounts in this day; and for those 24 hours citizens get to clear their minds of  any problems they might be confronting. For those 24 hours, you can dance, sing, drink, jump, laugh and give away smiles to anyone you encounter… Essentially live live to its fullest. If I had to characterize people from La Ceiba with an event, it would definitely be the carnival. All the activities and affairs of this Saturday sum up life in one of Honduras’ coastal cities. This lifestyle might strike as a bit crazy, but after all, Celia Cruz was right: there’s no need to cry because life is just that, a carnival!