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Poets' diaries: Julius Chingono
Poetry
International Web
June
12-18, 2004
http://international.poetryinternationalweb.org/piw_cms/cms/cms_module/index.php?obj_id=385
In this new diary, Zimbabwean poet Julius Chingono, out of his home
country for the first time, attends the Poetry International Festival
in Rotterdam, 2004. “All of a sudden I have a tag. I am being addressed
as a poet. I am supposed to regard myself as someone who writes poetry.
I lie on the bed but can’t find sleep. I still cannot endure this
unfolding experience.”
Saturday,
June 12
After 20 hours of flight and lounging in airport transit halls, I
check in at the Atlanta Hotel in Rotterdam. I am a guest at the Poetry
International Festival, Rotterdam, The Netherlands. It is the first
time I have been out of Zimbabwe my home country. Irene Staunton,
a publisher, travelled with me from Harare.
Alone. Room 230 is welcoming but the file the receptionist gave me
is frightening. It has all the details of the Poetry International
Festival programme. All of a sudden I have a tag. I am being addressed
as a poet. I am supposed to regard myself as someone who writes poetry.
I lie on the bed but can’t find sleep. I still cannot endure this
unfolding experience. I rehearse my poem for the first night’s performance
several times. It is already lunchtime, but I am not feeling hungry.
I had two breakfasts – one on the flight to Frankfurt and another
on the flight to Schiphol, Holland. Time is moving very fast. I leave
my room to wander, not far but around the hotel building. I am afraid
of getting lost.
At 3 p.m. I meet Irene in the hotel lobby. We walk to the Rotterdam
City Theatre about 300m away. The festival centre. We meet the festival
officials on the second floor – the Poets’ Foyer. The welcome is warm
and informative. I realise the magnitude of this event. A Mecca of
the world’s poets. I am clad heavily. I have this strong notion that
Europe is very cold. I am forgetting that Holland is experiencing
summer – a coat, a jersey, a pair of long johns and trousers and thick
high stockings. I hope my hosts do not conclude that I am ill (upstairs).
I part with Irene at the hotel. I want to see Rotterdam and, in a
big way, Europe. At 58, I acclimatise myself in the streets. I lose
myself in thoughts of how its going to be on this first night. I am
anxious. In no time its 6 p.m. – supper time. The welcome dinner is
held on the seventh floor of the Atlanta Hotel. The sun is high. At
home, in Zimbabwe, 6 p.m. is usually sunset. I meet poets and publishers
from all over the world. I introduce myself to guys I am sharing the
table with. But names I cannot remember.
At 9:30p.m. the opening event entitled, ‘In the beginning . . .’ starts.
About 19 poets perform. I read the poem ‘Off Beat’ in the main hall.
An audience of about 200, claps hands. Irene says I was good. I am
glad. At the opening concert after the poetry readings, I mingle with
poets and festival officials. 12:30 p.m. I sleep.
Sunday, June 13
10 o’clock a.m. I wake up and put on my white gown. At home and in
my church we pray facing the east. I kneel and pray facing the window.
I guess it’s the east. I bath. At breakfast, the room is full of poets.
I recognise some of the faces I saw the previous evening. We congratulate
each other upon the success (I presume) of the previous night’s readings
as we collect food and share tables. I do not believe poets flatter
each other. Food is plentiful. Back home I do not eat until well after
mid-day, if I happen to have food. I do not know the names of the
different foods I am eating. I hope there is no pork. At home I normally
live on supper but my appetite is at its peak despite the strangeness
of the foods. I hope my stomach does not react negatively.
My little finger is swollen, an abscess is forming around the finger
nail. Someone suggests I see a doctor. I agree. I take some pain killers.
At 3p.m. I take a stroll in the streets of Rotterdam but making sure
that I do not get lost. Too many whites and few blacks, quite the
opposite at home. I window-shop but never stop to buy. I attend the
sound check at 5p.m.
6p.m. The sun is still quite high in the sky. In the dining room is
a poets’ talk, very inspiring. I listen attentively. Back in my hotel
room I prepare for my performance. I recite and try hard to overcome
mounting nervousness. I still suffer from ‘stage fright’. Time moves
fast.
9:30p.m. On the ‘Psalms Old and New’ programme. I read my poem entitled
‘Psalms’ in the little hall. It seems the microphones are very helpful
with voice projections. I fear that my voice can disappear but the
audience claps hands when I finish reading. I feel relieved as I leave
the stage.
After the show I meet poets from Britain for drinks. Don Paterson,
Carol Ann Duffy, Michael Longley and his wife, and Ruth Borthwick.
Great guys.
Monday, June 14
7a.m. I am in bed. I am thinking of home. My brother is in hospital
– Bonda Hospital, Zimbabwe. My mind traces the path that I always
walk at this time of day on my way to the bus-stop. The small stream
of sewage I always jump across on my way to and from the shops. I
do not know why I am thinking of home. The nagging pain from the finger
draws me back. I take a bath.
During breakfast, the talk at my table was about Zimbabwe. The dictatorship.
The poets are inquisitive. They cannot imagine how I happen to survive
in a country without the rule of law. I do not have business cards
for contact with other poets. Nor access to e-mail and fax. The number
of contact cards I have received is increasing. I refer them to Irene
Staunton for all communication with me.
11a.m. I have some drinks with Ruth Borthwick – a long discussion.
She visited my home country Zimbabwe in 1983. Ruth is the head of
Literature Talks at the Royal Festival Hall on the South Bank, London.
I fill her in with the latest on Zimbabwe. A very pleasant lady who
came to Zimbabwe when it was still nice. I did not enjoy telling her
what Zimbabwe has turned out to be. I notice that the transport system
seems to be efficient. Commuters do not wait long at pick-up points.
The bicycle is also very handy. Back home bicycles are infra dig and
expensive. Not many people own them.
3p.m. We cruise in a taxi to the doctor’s surgery. She cleans my finger,
bandages it and gives me a prescription for antibiotics. I walk back
to the City Theatre. I notice that there is a café or restaurant at
every corner. I wonder what the visit to the doctor would have cost
me back home. I can’t afford consulting a private doctor. Government
hospitals have no medicines but I can manage their fees. I may be
forced to consult faith healers who do not charge anything for their
services.
I am back in my room. I rehearse and recite my poems. Today I am on
the programme. I make many mistakes. It’s my nerves. I join the other
poets for supper. I have supper with Jabik Veenbaas who translated
my poems from English to Dutch. I take two glasses of red wine after
supper.
9:30p.m. I am on stage. There is not enough light for me to read.
I cannot finish reading the first verse of the first poem. Technicians
rectify the lighting problem and I can see the letters again. I need
new glasses. I read ten poems. There is an applause. The audience
enjoyed my presentations. ‘As I go’ is the poem they liked most. Ahmed
al-Shahawi of Egypt and Lloyd Haft of Netherlands also read from their
collections. I sleep happy, but its not over yet.
Tuesday, June 15
7a.m., after prayer I bath. Eat breakfast. Back in my room I rehearse
and recite a poem by Pablo Neruda for my evening reading. I also recite
my poem, ‘Fake City’ for the same programme. At 10a.m. I take a stroll
into town.
As I wander, I remember that someone at breakfast said something about
the Dutch not liking milk in their tea. At home I do not drink tea
with milk, not because I do not like milk. I cannot afford to buy
it. I meet a scruffy person wearing dirty blue denim jeans and jacket.
He is about 55. He reminds me of the street people back home. I really
wanted to see him beg and how people would react. Back home we are
very charitable. We give the little we have. He walks on and I leave
him alone.
I take lunch, a cheese roll and Coca Cola. I have developed a taste
for cheese which I think I will miss when I go back to Zimbabwe. It
is a luxury I cannot afford. I notice that the Dutch roll and make
cigarettes. At home it is often done by rural people.
4p.m. I am engaged in a programme on ‘Poetry in the Afternoon – Hidden
Poetry in the Bible.’ I read Psalm 114 to an audience of about 30
in the Theatre Café Floor. Willem Jan Otten of the Netherlands shares
the stage with me. I enjoy the reading and the interview so much that
I am inspired to preach about the psalm back home.
9:30p.m. A documentary film on Pablo Neruda’s life is shown. After
the film I read the poem, ‘I am explaining a few things’ by Pablo
Neruda. The poem is about the break of the rule of law and dictatorship
in Spain. I happen to come from a country where there is no rule of
law and where there is dictatorship. I also read my own poem called,
‘False City’. The programme host asks a few questions about my poetry
in relation to Neruda’s protest poems. She doesn’t hear my answers.
Alfred A, Yuson, Serge Patrice Thibodean and Mario Montalbetti also
read poetry in tribute to Pablo. A band plays rhumba music. A lively
programme – very entertaining.
Wednesday, June 16
10a.m. I meet Mario Montalbetti and Ahamed al-Shahawy, poets from
South America and Egypt in the hotel lobby. We are going for a boat
ride. Hans, a jovial stout man is our guide. He is punctual – 10a.m.
At the harbour we pose for a photo. The cruises and events at the
harbour are all organised by Spido, a tour organisation. The cruise
is 75 minutes. It is my first boat ride but I am not enjoying it.
I feel drowsy and sleep half the tour. After the cruise I spend the
day asleep in my hotel room. I suspect it’s the pills that are affecting
me.
Thursday, June 17
I wake up at 8a.m. I am feeling better. Its sunny and bright. Irene
and her husband Murray have organised another boat ride but with a
difference – a visit to the windmills. I do not want miss out as I
did yesterday. 10a.m. What a surprise! In the hotel lobby I see Trish
and Wilf Mbanga – Zimbabweans. Murray and Irene did not mention the
Mbangas when they told me about the windmills. I am extremely happy.
For the first time in six days, I find myself speaking Shona as I
embrace Wilf, a homeboy. A homeboy in exile. After the greetings we
leave for the harbour in a taxi. We get on a boat. I am anxious to
know how he is coping. We talk but the conversation always drifts
back to the situation at home. Wilf and Trish do not seem to be regretting
that they are in exile. They are not at home. They are free. For the
first time, I feel I should remain in Rotterdam and forget about going
back home. I want to join the many Zimbabweans in the diaspora. I
have enjoyed myself in Holland. I do not tell anybody what I am thinking.
I do not know whether the many questions I asked Wilf gave me away.
I am not thinking of disappearing like my countrymen who vanish when
they visit and become illegal immigrants. Photographs, jokes and drinks
make the boat ride memorable. I am drinking red wine.
12:30p.m. We get off the boat. We walk to a windmill – quite a crowd.
The windmill is a tourist attraction and it is still working. I go
up the mill and sign in the visitors book. The windmill is drawing
water into a canal. Trish and I watch the wooden wheels turn when
the brake is released. Some more photographs are taken. I would certainly
like to see them.
The five of us walk back to the boat. I am thinking of Victoria Falls
back home. One of the seven wonders of the world but which is hardly
getting that attention. Not many tourists are visiting Zimbabwe. I
am disappointed.
We have lunch and walk back to the hotel. Parting is abrupt and I
like it that way.
9:30p.m. I watch the ‘Poetry International World Slampionship’ finals
in the main hall. Tonight as I lie in bed I contemplate exile. I sleep
late.
Friday, June 18
I wake up. 8a.m. I am feeling hungry. For the first time in a very
long time I feel so. My digestive system seems to be adapting easily.
And its my last day in Rotterdam. Tomorrow 12 noon I check out of
Atlanta Hotel. I do not welcome the idea. I have not had enough of
Rotterdam and the Dutch. It now seems I have only been a day in Rotterdam.
I have met too many people, done too much in too short a time. At
breakfast poets talk of parting and leaving. It is surprising how
these faces I have everyday have become suddenly familiar although
I am still having problems with names. Great poets of the world. After
breakfast I walk around the streets. I want to buy my wife a pair
of shoes. I meet this scruffy man again. He is in his blue dirty denim
jeans and carrying his sack. I do not want to guess what is in the
sack.
9:30p.m. I attend the ‘Revelations’ – the grand final event. Poets
recite poems that have a special meaning to them and answer questions
like, What poem have you been carrying around for years? What book
would you take to a desert island? What book or poem do you hold sacred?
The closing dance party is entertaining but sad as we are saying good
bye to each other. It has been a great week.
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