Kobarid (population 1,460) lies in the valley of the Soca River, a fast-flowing stream popular with white-water enthusiasts. The Kobarid Museum, a plain three-story building, opened in 1990 and won several awards. Entering the building one notices on the left wall close-up photographs of 36 combatants facing crosses on the wall opposite. On the cobblestones between is the nose cone of a gas shell.
The Austro-German campaign of World War I on the Slovenian front involved 5,900 canons, the use of poisonous gas, and blitzkrieg methods of assault sometimes at altitudes of 12,000 feet. After eleven failed attempts from the Italian side, the Austro-German Army launched one surprise attack that effectively won the war. A young officer in the German Army, Captain Rommel, distinguished himself in this battle. The Italians lost but at The Treaty of Versailles were awarded, for being on the side of the western Allies, large tracts of land in Austria and Slovenia, including this part where Kobarid is located.
On the stairs to the upper floors of the museum, a large photograph shows a crowded trench filled with apprehensive troops just prior to an attack. Of the eighteen rooms in the museum, the Black Room portrays in photographs and tableaus the horror of trench life: faces frozen in the rictus of death, severed legs protruding from a trench wall, dead bodies hanging on barbed wire and the deformed faces of victims of canon fire. The White Room describes the harsh conditions of fog and snow at high altitudes. Displays are described in English, and there is .a slide show with commentary.
Not far from Kobarid is a different sort of memorial from a different war. This is the Franja Partisan Hospital of World War II. Deep in a canyon three miles from the town of Cemko are thirteen perfectly preserved buildings, including an operating theater and X-ray room, where wounded partisans fighting against the Germans were treated.
Rough bunk beds with coarse sheets fill some of the smaller cabins, primitive pieces of medical equipment stand idle unused for fifty years, and photographs of hospital doctors (the chief surgeon was a woman) hang on bare wood walls. Further up the canyon is a generating plant, powered by the roaring water which concealed any noise from the hospital. This is Slovenia's most popular museum
One hour's drive southeast from the Franja Partisan Hospital is picturesque Predjama Castle. Built into a cleft in a 350-foot cliff is a four story castle, dating to the 13th Century, complete with drawbridge, hidden passageway and a dungeon. Hollywood could not have improved upon the castle's site or history.
Its near impregnable location, high on the cliff face, made this fortress popular with robber barons at odds with the Austrian Empire. The only part of the castle vulnerable to attack however was the toilet which was located on the top floor facing the valley. In 1484 the castle, occupied at that time by a rebellious knight called Erazem, was under assault by the forces of the Habsburg monarch Frederick III. Erazem had been eating cherries and drinking wine and, when he retired to the upstairs toilet, an informer gave a signal to the attacking force and a single cannon ball blasted him off the toilet and took his life.
2001
SEVEN CELTIC TRIBES GATHER IN FRANCE FOR ANNUAL FESTIVAL
LORIENT, FRANCE
"It's a pity about the weather, the costumes will get wet", said the waitress as she served croissants and coffee. She was referring to the threatening rain and to the parade of Celtics that was due to take place in an hour's time.
This was my third visit to the Interceltique Festival in Lorient, France, a port on the south coast of Brittany. I personally didn't feel that a drop of rain would spoil the parade for the hardy Celts. They were driven out of Central Europe in the first millennium to the wet western edge of Europe, and were used to rain. The festival was about to start, and musicians and dancers from the seven Celtic nations - Scotland, Isle of Man, Ireland, Wales, Cornwall, Asturias/Galicia (Spain) as well as the hosts, Brittany, were getting ready for The Grande Parade.
Sure enough, despite rain showers, close to 1,000 performers marched through the streets of Lorient with banners flying, drums beating, bagpipes and flutes playing, to the enthusiastic applause of the spectators. Upwards of half a million visitors were expected to attend the ten-day festival, now it its thirty-first year.
First in the procession, immediately after the flag bearers were the Bretons. A French navy band, wearing striped shirts and red-and-blue berets, marched briskly along playing small bagpipes and flutes to the wild cheers of the local crowd. The Breton bagpipe is a variation of the great Highland bagpipe, smaller in size and with only two drones.
Next came a group of dancers from Asturias in northern Spain. The men wore knee-length britches and clogs on their feet while the women, who carried baskets of flowers, were dressed in ankle-length black dresses and wide-brimmed straw hats, a rustic scene from old Europe.
Then, as the skies temporarily cleared, a new sound could be heard above the crowd's chatter: a military drum beat and the drone and skirl of a pipe band now filled the air. This was the Queensland Highlanders pipe band from Australia, special guests of this year's festival. The proud Aussies, eight abreast, filled the narrow street to capacity, forcing the onlookers back on to the sidewalk. For the next three hours, as the umbrellas of the crowd went up and came down according to the rain showers, all ages and nationalities of Celts paraded through the town, finishing the two-mile route at the harbor in front of the Festival concert hall.
The style and music of the marchers varied greatly. The Scots and Irish bands played rousing martial music. Particularly impressive was the pipe major of the Dysart and Dundonald pipe band from Scotland. Marching in front of the band, this whiskered highlander in full kilt regalia, twirled his four-foot, silver-embossed baton behind his back and to each side of him, and from time to time would throw it high in the air, catching it a second later as it came down, all without breaking step. The crowd roared its approval.
Quainter and quieter were the French and Spanish dancing groups. They marched and pirouetted at the same time, to the music of medieval instruments, the women in lace bonnets and long flared skirts. Breton bands and dancing groups comprised over half of the parade's marchers.
The festival got under way the next day, offering a daily program from ten in the morning until the wee hours. Serious competitions for solo bagpipes, harp recitals, massed pipe bands marching in unison to one of the town's stadiums, and late-night folk groups offered something for everyone.
Large quantities of wine, beer, Breton cider (hard cider) and Guinness were consumed around the clock. Most of the eating was done in a large tent where the performers could mix with the audience as they ate a meal. Overall, the performers were mainly young, with a large number of old groups, many of them Irish, playing haunting and stirring music far into the night in venues ranging from school gymnasiums to back rooms in pubs.
Politics played a background role in the festival. I noticed a few posters around town: "Bretons always, French never," and "Reforms: Corsica today, Brittany tomorrow." Overt public announcements of a political nature were absent, although the Festival organizers would dearly love to see an independent Brittany.
Celtic music and dancing is enjoying great popularity around the world, as demonstrated by the huge success of "Riverdance", the Irish dance group, and many small folk groups.
In Lorient there were groups or individuals from Chile, Quebec and Mexico, each playing their version of a Celtic instrument or melody. Whatever the reason for the renaissance of Celtic music, the Interceltic Festival can claim a lot of credit. It looks all set to continue indefinitely, same place and same dates.
2002
BATTLEFIELDS, MONUMENTS
I've always been fascinated by remains of old battlefields, whether three thousand years ago or only fifty. I have wandered around Troy in Turkey and observed the reconstructed 30-foot high Trojan Horse, and heard a local historian insist that the Horse story was just that, a great tale thought up by Homer. I have crawled through tunnels in Vietnam which showed the determination and ingenuity of the Vie
t Cong during the ten years of the Vietnam War.
Two war zones continue to attract attention today, even to generations far removed from the place. Gallipoli, the peninsula in the Dardanelles sea passage near to Istanbul, was a small sideshow in the greater picture of World War I. It was Churchill's plan to open a second front by invading Turkey which was allied to Germany. The invasion failed and after ten months the forces withdrew.
But not before the allied forces including contingents from Australia and New Zealand had suffered considerable casualties. For Australia this was their first taste of warfare and was a turning point in their national consciousness. For the Turks also, their victory pointed the way to a modern Turkey, unshackled from the Ottoman Empire.
In 1981 a movie "Gallipoli" by Australian film maker Peter Weir came out. It told the story of two young Australian athletes who joined the army as field runners and were shipped to Gallipoli where their regiment was decimated, through callous British generalship and bad luck. Both runners were shot dead when returning from Headquarters to announce the cancellation of a suicidal Australian attack on Turkish positions, which went ahead in any event.
The unusual part of this story is how the ill-fated campaign, the first foray into the international field by the Australian army, has caught the attention of today's young Australians removed by many generations from the event. Now, on the rite of passage trip which most young Australian students make to London and Europe, Gallipoli is a stopover, attracting thousands.
ANZAC stands for Australian and New Zealand Army Corps and ANZAC Day is 25 April commemorating the landing of the joint force on the peninsula. Today's Australians commemorate this day in that remote campaign, rather than the date in November when WWI ended, to honor their war dead. This short and losing campaign was when their national identity was forged, their nation born, many claim.
Thirty-one cemeteries, meticulously maintained and supervised by an on-site British civil servant contain the remains of the 40,000 dead from all parts of the British Empire, many of whom died of sickness. You can rent a car and tour the area, dropping down into still evident trenches, stepping over some barbed wire, gazing up at an enormous Turkish monument to a soldier, and read in your guidebook about the slaughter than took place.
Move now 1,300 miles northwest for more war memories in the town of Ypres, Belgium. Every day of the year, at 8 p.m., two buglers from the local fire department march to a huge arched gateway called the Menin Gate. Ieper, or Ypres in French, or Wipers to the British troops, was a main staging point for the Western Front. Hundreds of thousands of troops marched from there to the trenches. Inscribed on this stone built war Memorial to the Missing are 55,000 names of British war dead from 90 years ago.
Just before 8 p.m. each evening traffic is halted by a lone policeman as the buglers march to the center of the arch. There they halt and, in the silence of no traffic and a respectful audience they play The Last Post. In summer there may be a large crowd of British tourists some of whom had family killed in the Great War. In winter there may be no one, but the simple and moving ceremony goes on regardless. It is Belgium's appreciation of the sacrifice by others in that war.
All around, and within easy distance on a rented bike, are other memorials commemorating specific battles, the white crosses neatly laid out in straight lines next to trim lawns, many where the corpse could not be identified bearing the inscription "Known only to God". In Ieper city center the medieval Cloth Hall, formerly the center of Flanders's cloth trade, which was completely destroyed in the early part of the war, has been restored to its former glory - and houses a museum to the First World War.
It's ironic that the best remembered war poem about the campaign was written by a Canadian lieutenant colonel, John McRae, a surgeon and, unlike Wilfred Owen, not a known poet. He died in France in 1918 of pneumonia and is buried there. The first part of his poem reads:
In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
2007
HO CHI MINH CITY
Arriving at Ho Chi Minh City Airport from the glamour and bustle of Bangkok provides a slight shock. The utilitarian Arrivals Hall was hung with a banner: "Welcome to the Socialist Republic of Vietnam." In Bangkok there were fancy boutiques and a lot of noise. Here it was more subdued and plainer in appearance. We form into lines to have our visa checked by officers with high-peaked military caps.
The Immigration and Customs formalities were eventually completed and I emerged onto the concourse. I found a money change office and obtained some dong (16,000 dong to one dollar). I also booked a hotel room for twenty dollars with TV, air-conditioning and private bath. A taxi takes me into town. The streets were crowded with scooters and other traffic. Everyone seemed to be on the move.
My clean, three story hotel was on the edge of the backpacker zone, near downtown. This area was full of restaurants, bars, souvenir shops and low priced accommodation. I was paying double what the many European and Australian budget travelers were paying. I went into a restaurant called "Good Morning, Vietnam" and ordered some Italian food from the menu which was printed in English. A steady stream of teenage salesmen paused at my table which was right by the door. They seemed to spot a newcomer.
These unlicensed vendors sold pirated English-language guidebooks and novels which they carried in 3-foot bundles, hammocks, chocolate bars, and cigarettes. Walking along the sidewalk later, a youth murmured "Opium, mister?" and I shook my head yet again. This part of Saigon is busy with commerce, and hustling tourists is part of the scene. It's not aggressive, but it is persistent.
Armed with a guidebook map I headed off for some sightseeing on foot: to the market, to the hotel bar where correspondents used to hang out during the Vietnam War, to the war museum, to the Fine Arts Museum and finally to the cathedral built by the French. Getting anywhere on foot is a challenge since traffic lights are rare, and the traffic flow, mainly scooters, heavy and constant. The only way to cross the street other than sheltering behind a rare local pedestrian is to wait for a half gap in the stream and simply step out into the street, not hesitating, steadily advancing and keeping an eye on the approaching flow. Do not hesitate or stop. The oncoming drivers can see you, and are going faster than you. They will avoid you so long as you don't confuse them. Move steadily, hold your arm up if preferred and you won't be hit. The scooters that are not being driven are parked on the sidewalks which are almost impassable. Saigon is scooter-ville. Some scooters carry up to four passengers; other scooters carry merchandise clutched by the passenger or even the driver.
I passed by the Presidential Palace. The tank which breached the palace gates (one of the war's iconic pictures) was parked with its sister tank under some trees. I was heading for the city's most famous tourist site, the War Remnants Museum, which has attracted 10 million visitors since it opened in 1975. It comprises eight permanent thematic exhibitions, and a collection of US military equipment including tanks and planes in the courtyard. Smaller buildings around the courtyard house some of the exhibitions ("Requiem," a collection of photographs taken by war reporters killed in the war; and a recreation of the "tiger cages" used by the Diem regime to hold political prisoners) while the bulk of the collection is housed in the main building. There are some artifacts on display, like Agent Orange canisters, but the bulk of the exhibition consists of photographs and printed quotations (e.g. from General Curtis LeMay about bombing Vietnam back to the Stone Age) and statistics (U.S. spent $925 billion, dropped 5.3 million tons of bombs). The folly of it is enough to make you weep or enraged.
Some of the pictures are brutal and shocking. A GI is shown holding the shredded corpse of a Vietcong; other GI's are shown throwing bodies from helicopters or using water torture. There are photos of the My Lai massacre, and of victims of Agent Orange. But overall the tone is
restrained and sad, not hostile, overly anti-American or accusatory. The brochure talks about "foreign aggressive forces" and American imperialism. An epitaph to the work of the dead reporters refers to "Illusions, foolish causes, mad dreams" as causes of the war. This is a somber place and emotionally difficult in particular for many of the American visitors. I wished I knew Vietnamese so I could have read the entries in the Visitors' Book. I marveled at the resilience of the Vietnamese in presenting such a balanced exhibition without excessive propaganda.
Seeking to get out of Ho Chi Minh City, I signed up on a two-day tour to the Mekong Delta. Like everything else, it was absurdly cheap, only $30. The next morning I turned up at the travel agency (owned by American Vietnamese) and joined a group of mixed nationalities. We drove to the city dock and boarded a double deck passenger ferry for a four-hour cruise downstream. The river is a quarter mile wide here, and the traffic mainly barges carrying sand for Saigon's construction.
Later we transferred to a smaller boat, and entered a maze of shady canals. We stopped at an orchard and tasted tropical fruit. In one village local musicians played for us. We visited a honey farm and a coconut candy factory, then rode bicycles to a nearby thatched roof guest house where we lay in hammocks and enjoyed a cold fruit drink. After overnighting in a simple hotel (no windows but British soccer on the TV), I went downstairs for breakfast. A young Vietnamese woman sitting at a nearby table asked if I would mind talking English with her. I said, "Of course not," and soon she was asking me about gerunds and other grammatical fine points. Obviously, she had been highly trained in grammar but lacked practice. Her ambition was to be a tour guide.
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