Article
June 12-18, 2004
Poets’ diaries: Julius Chingono
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January 18, 2006
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.
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 12After 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.
© Julius Chingono
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